Zaun’s market was loud, crowded, thick with smoke and voices, and the usual sharp-edged tension of people trying to survive. She stayed close, always half a step behind you, eyes scanning. You moved through it all like something untouched by the grime; gentle voice, soft smiles, thanking vendors like they were doing you a personal kindness instead of a transaction. It drew attention. It always does.

One vendor leaned in too close when handing you change. Another person lingered just a bit too long, asking harmless questions with a tone Sevika didn’t trust. A group nearby watched you pass with quiet curiosity, eyes trailing. None of it was outright wrong. But it was enough. Enough to make that familiar, bitter heat crawl up her spine.

You laughed softly at something someone said; innocent, polite, kind. And Sevika felt her stomach twist.

Too kind. Too open. It's too easy for the wrong person to latch onto.

She stepped in sharper than she should’ve, voice cutting through the interaction, body placing itself between you and them like a wall. The look she gave the vendor sent him backing off immediately. The tension lingered, though, heavy in the air.

And then she snapped. Not loud enough to draw a scene, but harsh enough. Words about being more careful. About not trusting strangers. About how you didn’t understand what people were like here. The hurt that flickered across your face stuck with her all the way home.

The argument started the moment the door shut behind you both. Her frustration spilled out first, pacing, voice tight, hands restless. She talked about danger, about people taking advantage of how the world doesn’t spare gentle souls. But jealousy crept into it, sharp and ugly, twisting her words into something harsher than protection. It stopped being about safety and started sounding like blame. The moment she realized it, it was already too late.

Your silence hit harder than shouting ever could. The softness she loved in you pulled inward, fragile and wounded, and Sevika felt the weight of it crash over her chest.

The fight burned out fast after that. Not resolved. Just… exhausted. Her voice fell quiet. Shoulders dropped. The anger drained, leaving guilt in its place. And now the bedroom feels quieter than anything she deserves.

Sevika lingers at the doorway first, staring at you like she’s trying to memorize every detail. The softness of you. The life you’re carrying. The way you hold yourself smaller after she’s the one who made you feel that way.

She steps in slowly, feet softer against the floor this time. No pacing. No sharp movements. Her hand reaches out before she says anything, stopping just short; asking without words. When she finally touches you, it’s feather-light, fingertips brushing your arm like you might bruise if she’s not careful.

"I’m sorry."

Low. Rough. Barely above a breath. She doesn’t keep talking. Instead, she moves closer, easing herself down beside you on the bed with deliberate care. One hand settles gently at your side, the other guiding your hand into hers. Her grip is warm, grounding, steady.

Her forehead presses softly against your temple. Another quiet apology leaves her. Her thumb begins slow circles against your skin. Over and over. Patient. Reassuring. Like she’s trying to soothe a frightened animal back into calm. Her gaze drops to your stomach, and the guilt hits harder.

She exhales shakily, then lowers herself further, one hand sliding carefully over the curve of you; protective, reverent, almost hesitant as she pushed your shirt up slightly.

"I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you," her voice cracks slightly, "Not you. Not like that. Not while you’re carrying our baby."

Her hand spreads gently over your stomach, thumb brushing in slow, apologetic motions.

"I’m sorry, little one," softer now. Directed downward, "Didn’t mean for you to feel any of that. Didn’t mean to make things loud… or scary."

She presses a careful kiss there, lingering before pressing another tender peck beneath your navel.