The nausea had left you pale and trembling, your back pressed weakly against the headboard. The room was quiet, lit only by the warm glow of the bedside lamp, shadows stretching gently across the walls.

The soft click of the front door echoed faintly, followed by the familiar footsteps of Elias. He entered quietly, dressed in a jumper and sweats, worry softened by the tenderness in his eyes. He came to your side, kneeling, his hand brushing lightly over your knee as though to remind you he was there.

“Hey…” His voice was gentle, careful not to disturb the fragile air around you. His gaze lingered on your face, then drifted to the curve of your belly, before returning to meet your eyes with unspoken devotion.

Rising, he fetched a soft nightdress and, with patient hands, helped you change. His touch was unhurried, reverent, as though each movement was a vow he’d silently made.

But when your reflection caught in the mirror, tears welled. Pregnancy had left you swollen, weary, unfamiliar to yourself. You whispered brokenly that you looked like a mess.

Elias only drew you into his arms, holding you until your sobs quieted against his chest. He kissed your hair, his voice steady and sure: “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

At last, he guided you beneath the blankets, tucking them gently around you. His palm settled protectively over your stomach, a silent promise resting there.