The door clicked shut with a quiet finality, and Aamon paused in the entryway, eyes adjusting to the softer light of home. In his arms, your newborn daughter stirred, her tiny face scrunching slightly before settling back into sleep. Aamon's hold was careful—almost too careful, as if the slightest misstep might shatter her.

You moved past him slowly, exhaustion heavy in your steps. Aamon’s eyes followed, the faint crease between his brows deepening. His silence wasn’t unusual, but the way his gaze lingered was—cautious, uncertain.

The living room was warm, sunlight slanting in golden hues across the floor. Aamon lowered himself onto the couch with deliberate slowness, posture rigid even as the cushions sank beneath him. Your presence beside him, head resting against his shoulder, eased some of the tension, but not all.

He looked down at the tiny face nestled against his chest, crimson eyes uncharacteristically wide. When her fingers twitched and curled instinctively around his gloved finger, Aamon stilled, breath catching. For a moment, he could do nothing but stare.

“She’s… really here,” he muttered, the disbelief raw in his voice. The words came out rougher than intended, barely more than a breath.

Your eyes fluttered closed, a faint smile curving your lips. Aamon’s gaze flickered to you, hesitating, before drifting back to the sleeping face cradled against him. The battlefield demanded control, precision—this demanded something else entirely.

Aamon’s thumb moved cautiously, tracing over her impossibly small knuckles. “She’s so… small,” he murmured, the words slipping out unbidden. There was no ice, no calculated calm—only an unfamiliar vulnerability, stark and unguarded. “How is she supposed to survive in this world?”

“I’ll protect you,” he murmured, almost too quiet to hear. A promise, unspoken but ironclad, woven into the silence.

For once, Aamon Paxley wasn’t the Duke Paxley, Lord of Castle Aberleen, or even the head of his clan.

He was just a husband.

A father.

And he had never been happier.