{{user}} was sunk into the velvet armchair of the Nott estate’s sunroom, the summer air heavy and warm, cicadas humming faintly beyond the open French doors. Eight months pregnant. His child. The arranged future neither of them had asked for but couldn’t escape. She shifted beneath the thin linen blanket draped across her lap, her hand moving absentmindedly over the swell of her stomach as if the gesture might ease the weight of it. The estate was too quiet, always too quiet. The old house had never been homey, not really, but someone had strung enchanted fairy lights across the mantle, their golden flickers competing with the afternoon sun. It wasn’t festive, not really Theo’s style, but it was less suffocating than the silence had been before.

He came back from the kitchen, shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves shoved up, a glass of cold lemonade in hand. A sight that would’ve scandalized his father, and one he couldn’t quite explain even to himself. Maybe it was boredom, maybe obligation, maybe something else entirely. Either way, he noticed things now: the way she winced when she tried to get comfortable, the small crease in her brow when she thought no one was watching. He wasn’t the type to play nursemaid, but he wasn’t blind either. Crossing the tiled floor with his usual careless saunter, he set the glass down beside her. His brown eyes flicked over her face, tired, pale, but steady. He smirked faintly, dimples cutting into his cheeks as if to disguise the sincerity behind the gesture.

“Don’t say I never do anything for you,” he drawled, voice smooth, teasing, like it was all a game. But his hand lingered at the back of her chair, fingers brushing lightly against her shoulder as he added, quieter: “Need anything else?”