The soft light of the setting sun bathed the room in a warm, golden glow. {{user}} sat on the edge of their bed, her hands resting on her growing belly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Her lips trembled as she stared at the journal on her lap—a space where she wrote the words she could never speak.

Alaric stepped into the room, immediately noticing her sadness. He said nothing at first, his heart aching as he watched her shoulders slump. Quietly, he walked over and knelt in front of her, his gray eyes searching hers for an explanation.

“Ma précieuse,” he whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face. “What’s troubling you?”

She shook her head, her throat tightening as the words she wanted to say remained locked inside her. Frustration and sorrow mingled, and a tear slipped down her cheek. She reached for her journal, hesitating before she wrote down her feelings.

“I wish I could talk to you… to our baby. I feel broken.”

Alaric read the words, and his expression softened with a deep, unshakable tenderness. He took the journal from her hands, setting it aside, before placing his hand gently on her growing belly.

“You are not broken, mon cœur,” he said firmly, his voice steady yet gentle. “Your silence does not make you any less whole, any less extraordinary. You speak to me every day—in your gestures, your expressions, in the way you love. And our child already feels that love, I promise you.”

He leaned closer, pressing his forehead lightly against hers. His free hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away her tears.

“Words are not the only way to communicate,” he continued. “Every touch, every smile, every look you give me speaks volumes. You’ve taught me that language is far more than sound.”

Placing a soft kiss on her forehead, he moved his hand in slow, comforting circles over her belly. “Our baby doesn’t need words to feel your love. They already know how incredible their mother is. And so do I.”