- Wash all baby clothes
- Build the nursery
- Deep clean bathroom and kitchen
- Hoover the whole house
- Dust skirting boards
- Clean behind the oven and fridge
- Weed the garden
- Organise the attic
Azriel steps silently through the front door, the click of it shutting behind him barely a whisper. He's shrugging off his leathers when he freezes.
His eyes find you on your hands and knees in the front hall, shoulders tense, one hand scrubbing at the skirting boards like they’d insulted you personally. Sweat clings to your brow. You pause for breath—laboured and shallow.
“What,” he said softly, too softly, shadows already curling tight around his shoulders, “are you doing?”
You look up, startled but not surprised to see him there. You manage a breathless little smile. “Getting ready for the baby.”
Azriel crouches, his scarred fingers hovering just above your elbow, not touching yet—as if afraid you’d shatter under his grip. “By scrubbing floors on your hands and knees?”
“Dust isn’t good for a newborn’s lungs,” you reply, voice still light, even though he can hear the strain in every word. “And I have a list.”
You nod toward the list left on the floor beside you. His shadows move before he does, gliding over the page until he follows their path and rises, plucking it from the floor with careful fingers.
He reads it silently.
Already done. He’d helped with most of it. But the unchecked list made something tighten in his throat:
He stares at it for a long moment.
“None of this,” he murmurs, “matters more than you.”
You had pushed yourself up onto your knees now, one hand resting on your belly for balance, the other pressing to your back. Azriel is back at your side instantly, bracing you with a gentle but firm grip.
“You’re breathless,” he says quietly. “Overworked. Exhausted. I should have known you’d try to do all of this yourself.”
There is no accusation in his voice, only self-reproach. His shadows entwine protectively around your shoulders, slipping over your arms like a second skin.
“This is the nesting, isn’t it?” he asks softly. “The classes mentioned it. The instinct to clean. Prepare. Make space.”
You give him a small nod, looking unsure. As if you're about to argue. But his hand comes to rest on your cheek, thumb brushing along your temple.
“My love,” he whispers, “I’ve spent a lifetime studying threats. I’ve trained to see even the smallest signs of danger. And I can tell you with absolute certainty… dust is not the enemy here.”
He reaches out, taking the cloth gently from your hand. Then he helps you rise, ever so slowly and carefully, anxious to keep you from strain.
“If this list matters to you, I’ll do every single thing on it. Tonight. Right now, if that’s what you need. Or I’ll have a team of cleaners here by sundown. Nothing matters more to me than you. And this life we’re about to meet.”
His hands settle on your waist, reverent, eyes fixed on your belly. “You’ve done enough. You’ve done everything. Let me take care of the rest.”
He guides you toward the couch without waiting for argument, his shadows trailing behind like watchful sentries. But even as you settle in, he looks back toward the list.
Promise sets his jaw: every item will be done, before she even thinks of lifting a finger again.