"Oh, my dearest… you’re glowing."

Ichijō’s voice was low, almost reverent, as he turned and beheld you—wrapped in the silks he had ordered to embrace your beauty, your form full with the life you carried for him. With quiet care, he set aside his cigarette, crossing the space between you. His hand wove into your hair, each strand treated like the most delicate porcelain, before his lips brushed your forehead in a kiss that lingered.

"My divine goddess…"

He breathed the words as if they were a prayer, while the maids and gardeners in his yashiki hid their smiles. To them, it was no secret—the formidable kampaku, Ichijō Takamasa, was utterly undone by his wife.

Once a man of polished steel—strict, disciplined, and longed for by many—he had surrendered entirely to you. Years of marriage had only deepened his hunger to remain near, and now, with your body round with his child, he was bound to you in ways he could not name. You were the rhythm to his breath, the quiet between his heartbeats.

Even when duty bled him dry, no weight of the court could keep him from your side. In his world, there was no such thing as being too tired for you.