The House of River was quiet that afternoon — the kind of serene hush that only came after a long stretch of rain. The scent of bergamot and paint lingered in the air as you and Feyre sat by the wide glass windows of her workshop, cups of steaming tea between you.

Velaris stretched below, bathed in gold light.

Feyre smiled faintly as she swirled her brush in a jar of water. “You’d think after all these years, I’d get tired of painting the same view,” she said. “But it never stops feeling like home.”

You smiled. “Maybe that’s because you built it to be one.”

Her eyes softened — proud, warm — before she glanced at you again. You could feel her gaze lingering, studying you the way only a mother could. You took a sip of your tea to hide the flutter of nerves in your stomach.

It had been three weeks since you’d found out. You were pregnant. Three weeks of secret smiles, of Nyx’s hands protectively tracing lazy circles over your stomach at night. Three weeks of quiet joy.

You wanted to hold it close for a while longer — just the two of you.

But Feyre’s voice broke the comfortable silence. “You’re glowing,” she said softly.

You blinked. “Glowing?”

Feyre’s lips curved knowingly. “I’ve seen that look before,” she murmured, setting her brush aside. “It’s the same way I looked when I was carrying Nyx.”

Your heart stuttered. The cup trembled in your hands.

She stood and crossed the room with slow, graceful steps, her expression caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. “You are pregnant, aren’t you?”

You exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to your stomach. “We were going to wait a bit before telling anyone,” you admitted, voice quiet but trembling with happiness. “Just until I started showing. We wanted it to be… ours for a little while.”

Feyre’s eyes shone, tears gathering at the corners. Then she smiled — radiant and full of love — and wrapped you in her arms. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m so happy for you both.”

You melted into her embrace, overcome by the warmth of her joy. Feyre smelled like jasmine and paint, and for a moment, it reminded you of everything good and steady in your world.

When she pulled back, she brushed a tear from her cheek and laughed softly. “Nyx must be beside himself.”

You laughed too, though your eyes were still wet. “He’s been planning about a hundred things already. I think he’s more nervous than I am.”

As if summoned by his name, the door creaked open.

“Mother?” came his voice — deep, familiar, threaded with amusement. He stepped inside, his dark hair mussed from the wind, eyes immediately finding yours. “I was looking for—”

He stopped short at the sight of Feyre’s smile. His eyes darted to your flushed face, then to the way Feyre’s hand still rested gently on your stomach.

Realization flickered across his face.

“Ah,” he said softly, a slow grin spreading. “So… she knows.”

Feyre chuckled, dabbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “You didn’t really think you could hide something like this from me, did you?”

Nyx crossed the room in a few strides, cupping your face in his hands before brushing a kiss to your forehead. “Guess the secret’s out,” he murmured.

You smiled up at him. “She figured it out.”

Feyre looked between the two of you — her son and his mate, both radiating quiet, fierce joy — and her voice softened. “You’re going to make wonderful parents.”

The bond between you and Nyx thrummed gently, full of love and unspoken promise. His fingers laced through yours, his other hand resting over your stomach.