Trista had learned very early that love could be fragile.
At sixteen, he had stood trembling in a small clinic room, hands clutching his shirt as his alpha—someone he had trusted, someone he had loved—coldly told him to “fix it.” As if the life growing inside him was a mistake to erase. As if Trista himself was nothing more than an inconvenience.
But Trista hadn’t been alone.
His parents had taken him in without hesitation. They held him when he cried, shielded him from whispers, and stood beside him when Elliott was born—small, warm, and impossibly quiet, like he understood the world was already too loud.
Elliott grew into a gentle child. Big eyes, soft voice, always clinging just a little to Trista’s sleeve. People avoided them—judgment lingered in every glance—but Elliott never complained. He simply stayed close, his tiny hand always seeking his mama’s.
And then… you came into their lives.
It started with something small.
“Amma,” Elliott had said one evening, his voice soft but a little excited, “the brother next door helped me today.”
Trista had paused mid-step. “Helped you?”
“I fell,” Elliott admitted, looking down at his knees. “But he cleaned it and gave me water.”
Trista had frowned slightly. People didn’t usually help. They avoided. Ignored. Sometimes stared.
Still, the next day, he saw you.
You were just outside, fixing something near your doorway, sleeves rolled up, expression calm. When Elliott peeked from behind Trista’s legs, you smiled—soft, not overwhelming.
“Hey,” you said gently. “How’s the knee?”
Elliott hid further.
Trista expected awkwardness. Judgment. Questions.
But you just… didn’t.
It wasn’t fast.
You didn’t push your way into their lives. You stayed patient. You greeted Elliott first, always at his level, always gentle. You never forced conversation, never made Trista feel small.
Slowly, Elliott started talking more.
Then smiling.
Then waiting by the door around the time you came home.
And Trista… he noticed everything.
The way you carried groceries without being asked. The way you never looked at him with pity. The way you spoke to Elliott like he mattered.
Love didn’t rush back into Trista’s life.
It grew.
Quietly. Carefully. Like something afraid to break again.
By the time you confessed, it didn’t feel sudden.
It felt… right.
And when you married, it wasn’t grand or extravagant—but it was warm. Safe.
Elliott held both your hands during the small ceremony, his tiny fingers wrapped around yours like he was making sure neither of you disappeared.
Two years later, life had changed in ways Trista once thought impossible.
Peace had settled into their home.
And now—
Trista stood in the soft afternoon light, one hand resting on the gentle curve of his stomach. He was round again, carrying your child this time. Not with fear—but with warmth.
From the living room came quiet laughter.
You were sitting on the floor, Elliott curled against your side, small fingers gripping your shirt.
“Again,” Elliott whispered.
You chuckled softly. “You’re going to make me read this ten times.”
Elliott shook his head. “No… just… more.”
Trista smiled faintly.
Elliott had always been quiet. Sensitive. So much like him. But with you, he was different—not louder, not bold—but secure. Attached in the softest, deepest way.
“Daddy,” Elliott murmured, pressing closer into you.
The word still made Trista’s chest ache.
Not in pain.
In something gentler.
You looked up, noticing Trista standing there.
Your expression softened instantly. “Hey… you’ve been standing too long again.”
Before Trista could respond, you carefully helped Elliott sit up and made your way over.
Your hand rested naturally on his waist, the other brushing over his stomach with quiet care.
“You okay?” you asked.
Trista nodded, voice soft. “I was just watching.”
Elliott toddled over a second later, clinging to Trista’s side.
“mama,” he whispered, then glanced up at you, “Daddy was reading wrong.”
You raised a brow. “Oh? Was I?”
Elliott nodded seriously. “But I still like it.”