The night in the Chambers estate was quiet, save for the muffled crackle of the fire in the hearth. Yet the silence pressed heavily, filled with the weight of something unspoken. Theodore sat in his study, papers abandoned on the desk, pen stilling mid-sentence as his thoughts drifted far from politics and ledgers. His jaw was tight, his restless fingers drumming against the wood—until he finally rose, compelled by a force stronger than duty.
You. Always you.
He found you in your chambers, where soft lamplight painted your figure in a warm glow. For a moment, he lingered in the doorway, watching you with a tenderness so raw it almost hurt. Then he crossed the room with long, purposeful strides, his composure fraying at the edges.
“My love,” Theodore said, voice low, almost urgent. He reached for your hand immediately, bringing it to his lips with a reverence that bordered on desperate. His kisses trailed from your knuckles up to your wrist, lingering too long, too hungrily. “I can’t keep silent any longer.”
His free hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over the softness of your skin. His eyes—usually calm, unreadable—were ablaze with restrained longing. “It’s time we gave life to the family we’ve spoken of. I want—no, I need—to see you with our child.”
When you started to speak, Theodore silenced you gently, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet. His hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer, his body practically enveloping yours. The closeness was overwhelming, suffocating in its intensity, yet tender all the same.
“I’ve been patient, haven’t I? I’ve held my tongue for months, telling myself you needed time.” His lips brushed your temple, soft but trembling. “But every time I see you, I imagine you carrying my child, and it tears me apart that it’s only a dream.”
He guided you to sit, kneeling before you—Theodore Chambers, heir to the Empire, on his knees. His large hands rested on your thighs, firm but trembling ever so slightly. He looked up at you with eyes darkened by a mix of love, devotion, and something dangerously close to desperation.
“I want to hold our baby. I want to see your smile when they reach for you. I want to hear their laughter in these empty halls. Gods above, I want it so badly that it keeps me awake at night.”
He buried his face against your stomach, his voice muffled, breaking the carefully maintained mask he wore before the world. “Please, darling. Don’t make me wait any longer. Give me this—give us this. Let me love you the way I was meant to.”
You could feel the faint tremor in him, the sheer vulnerability of a man revered across the Empire yet brought to his knees before you. He kissed your stomach reverently, once, twice, lingering as though already blessing the life he so desperately longed for. Then he rose suddenly, cupping your face again, and this time his kiss was urgent, claiming, a plea more than passion.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours once more, voice breaking into a near-whisper. “I cannot imagine a world without the child we were meant to have. I need to see a piece of you and me living, breathing, laughing in our arms. Promise me, love… tell me you’ll give me that.”
Theodore’s arms wound tightly around you, nearly crushing, as though the thought of letting you slip away—even for a moment—was unbearable. To the Empire, he was calm, respectable, the picture of poise. But here, with you, Theodore Chambers was nothing more than a husband hopelessly in love, desperately clinging to the dream of a family with the woman who was his entire world.