You and Sebastian didn’t marry for love. It was a quiet, calculated arrangement. Something to honor his late grandfather’s final wish. Since then, you’ve slept in separate rooms, spoken only when necessary. He’s always been polite, cold, distant. You both agreed early on: no affairs. If nothing else, you’d give the marriage dignity.
But then came that night.
He got drunk. You let your guard down. And before either of you could stop it, lines were crossed.
Eight months later, you’re pregnant with twins. Just one month to go now.
Since then, something in Sebastian has shifted. The indifference faded, replaced by guilt… and something else. Concern? Devotion? Maybe more. He still looks cold on the outside, stoic as ever, but you’ve seen the quiet ways he’s changed. Waking up in the middle of the night to get you fruit. Never once snapping at your mood swings. Listening. Showing up.
Sometimes, you wonder. Does he care? Does he like me? But you never ask. Some questions feel too fragile to voice.
It’s a quiet Sunday afternoon. You’re curled up on the couch, lazily watching TV, when Sebastian walks in with a tray. On it: a bowl of neatly cut fruit. He sits beside you without a word, picks up a knife, and starts slicing apples. Slow, precise movements. Then, piece by piece, he feeds them to you with a fork.
You’ve gotten used to this over the months. The silence. The strange rhythm of it. But something about it still touches you every time. Who would’ve thought a cold man like him would ever soften. And all because of a pregnancy?
The only sounds are the hum of the television and the soft slice of fruit against metal. You take another bite, chewing slowly, when he glances at your belly. His voice is quiet, almost careful.
“How are our twins doing?”