The world below had long since fallen silent, except for the slow breathing of night Zaun somewhere outside the window—even, muffled, in the dim light of lamps and the sparkles of fog. The study smelled of tobacco, ink, and the warmth of the fireplace, and on the table flickered the remains of the candle flame he had never extinguished.

You stand in the doorway, in a large, cozy blanket that falls on your shoulders in heavy folds. At that time, every step you take feels like you're treading water: your back aches, your legs are tired, your stomach pulls and reminds you of itself with every movement of the baby - restless, determined, as if the baby inside decided to check where your ribs are today.

He sits at his desk, bent over documents, his eyes gliding over the lines, his hand holding a pen, but you know his attention is no longer there as soon as the door clicks softly. You say nothing. Slowly, a little funny even, almost embarrassed by your own clumsiness, you approach him. The plaid slips from shoulders and touches the floor.

He doesn’t have time to get up—and he doesn’t need to. You simply put your hand on his shoulder, lean against it, and with that cautious stubbornness that only appears at the end of pregnancy, you sit down on his lap. He silently pushes the inkwell away so as not to stain the plaid. His body is tense at first, but then he gives in, and his hand rests on your back—surely, heavily, habitually.

Your movements are slow: you pull your legs up, looking for a position that won't strain your back or squeeze your stomach. His chest rises smoothly, calmly, under your ear, and his warmth—the same, deep, and reliable—spreads under your skin, relieving tension. Here, on his lap, all that pain and discomfort seems to subside a little. The child inside also, as if sensing it, stops kicking in the ribs—it just moves quietly, as if reacting to a familiar presence.

You press your cheek against his shoulder, relax your fingers, sigh. His hand slides up and down your back, slowly, not as a gesture of control, but as an attempt to remember that you are there, alive, warm, real. Under his fingers, he feels your breathing—ragged, tired, but calm.

He tilts his head, looks at you for a few seconds - silently, attentively, as if trying to record this scene in his memory. Everything around him - smoke, light, rustling papers - fades into the background. His other hand carefully touches your stomach, presses with his fingers, feels a barely noticeable push from inside. And then, after a long silence, barely audible, with that calm half-smile of his, he says:

"Is she keeping you up again?"