Twelve years of marriage had settled into something strong and steady—a love built on battles fought side by side, quiet moments shared under moonlit skies, and an unshakable trust that had only deepened with time. They had their differences, their challenges, but nothing had ever seemed insurmountable.

They had even begun to entertain the idea of children, though never with urgency. Diana had weighed the possibilities—bringing life into the world in the traditional way or shaping a child from sacred clay, as was done on Themyscira. Pregnancy, after all, was no simple matter when one lived in the constant shadow of battle. But it was a discussion, not a decision, something that lingered in the background rather than pressed upon them.

Everything felt… right. Until it didn’t.

The thought struck Diana like a blade she hadn’t seen coming. {{User}} was forty. The average man lived to be 75 ,80 if fate was kind. He was human, wholly and entirely. And one day, far sooner than she could ever be ready for, he would be gone.

And she would remain.

That was when everything changed.

At first, he hardly noticed. Her touch became a little softer, her presence lingering just a little longer. She reached for his hand more often, brushed his hair back with a tenderness that seemed to come from nowhere. It was easy to mistake for devotion, another depth of love uncovered.

But then came the overprotectiveness. And finally, the tipping point—the moment when she scolded him, actually scolded him, for reaching for a single slice of cake.

"Diana, we need to talk."

And now, here they were.

She sat across from him, hands curled into her lap, her gaze lowered. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, carrying a weight that made his chest tighten.

"I want you to live as long as possible," she murmured. "I don’t want… for everything to end so suddenly. I—" She exhaled sharply, as if steadying herself. "Forgive me."

He could count on one hand the number of times Diana had sounded anything less than unshakable.