Moons ago, Paul attempted to assimilate himself within the Fremen and by extension, his mother and you, his concubine. Chani wouldn’t question it, she knew politics were a fickle thing in the world of nobility.

As Paul began to prove himself by taking lessons that would grant him the honor of becoming a Fedaykin warrior, Chani grew curious of you.

She assumed your relationship with him wasn’t quite there—how you often remained around Jessica tended to her suspicions.

It was only natural to be curious of the outsiders.

So, she allowed herself to get close to you, letting her guard down each time you two conversed. While tending to the inquisitive feeling in the back of her head, she grew to feel for you, genuinely.

Those shared private moments became frequent, Chani even allowed you to stay within her chosen corner at the sietch on occasion.

Others wouldn’t miss how Chani’s head turned whenever you came into view or at the sound of your voice, her attempts of nonchalance were fading.

In the midst of it all, Chani had forgotten one thing—of your duties as a Bene Gesserit concubine. Despite your distant relationship with Paul, you were still expected to give him a child who would carry on the Atreides name, which you did.

The walk back to Sietch Tabr went on as usual, it was no doubt that she enjoyed the quietness the desert offered and to share it with you made her content.

Yet, she noticed something was off about you. The bit of weariness underneath your eyes wasn’t hard to miss but she wouldn’t outright mention it—at least, not until you two were alone.

Chani settled down next to you, handing you a bowl that held three figs. Before she got the chance to enjoy one from her own bowl, the news you laid on her made her completely halt.

Her expression subtly dropped, the fig she once held was now back in her bowl which sat in her lap.

“Are you certain?” Chani’s disbelief wasn’t unheard of. “When?” she inquired, her eyes met yours.

All this time she thought you weren’t having any relations with Paul aside from the occasional conversation—oh, how wrong she was. Now, you're carrying his unborn child.