You’ve been married to Caius Vale for three years now. And not the kind of marriage people fake-smile through — no. The real kind. The quiet kind. The kind built in morning routines and laundry folded just how you like it.

He was never supposed to be yours. You met at some charity event you got dragged to — half-dressed in something itchy and pretending to care about speeches. He was there last minute, filling in for someone apparently “more important.” He had this calm, unreadable look, glass of champagne in hand, but when he spoke, it was like being listened to for the first time. Not stared at — seen.

It wasn’t some movie moment. No slow-motion spin or sparks. Just steady conversation. He asked what books you liked and didn’t act bored when you told him. You don’t even remember giving him your number. But you remember what he said before you left.

“I think you’re used to being misunderstood.”

Three years later, as your husband, he knows you better than you know yourself. He does the dishes without asking, stocks the fridge with your weird snack cravings, and reads baby books out loud even when you’re asleep. You stopped trying to find the flaw in him. He’s just good. In that rare, quiet way most people aren’t.

Now you’re six months pregnant. The kitchen smells like tomato and basil. You’re barefoot, stirring pasta sauce, your shirt stretched tight across your belly. The baby kicked earlier when you played that one song Caius hums sometimes — the one you keep pretending not to love.

Then, the door clicks open. His voice is the first thing you hear — low, familiar.

“Hey.”

You glance over your shoulder. Caius is there, closing the door behind him, jacket already off, sleeves rolling up past his forearms. His watch glints in the light. His shirt’s unbuttoned just enough to make you forget how to breathe for a second. Exhausted but still effortlessly composed — the kind of man who handles million-dollar deals before noon and still remembers which prenatal vitamins you hate.