The house used to feel like home.

It used to smell like morning tea and parchment, like Mattheo’s cologne clinging faintly to the cushions, like warmth. Like belonging. You remember when he couldn’t walk past you without touching you—hand at your lower back, fingers brushing your wrist, a kiss pressed into your hair like it was instinct, not effort.

You’ve been married for three years. Long enough for routines to form. Long enough for love to feel solid.

Long enough for it to start being taken for granted.

Seven months pregnant, your body carries the evidence of everything you’ve built together. The weight of it settles in your hips, your spine, your breath. The baby shifts as you sit carefully on the sofa, one hand braced against the armrest, the other resting over your stomach as if grounding yourself there might quiet the ache in your chest.

Down the hall, Daphne Greengr@ss laughs.

It’s soft. A little broken. The kind of laugh that invites sympathy.

She’s been staying here for weeks now—ever since the divorce, ever since the tears, ever since Mattheo insisted she shouldn’t be alone right now. Six months pregnant herself, fragile in ways that seem to demand attention. His attention.

You hadn’t argued. You hadn’t wanted to seem cruel. You told yourself it was temporary. You told yourself you were being unreasonable.

But somewhere along the way, she became the one he checked on first.

You hear his voice now—low, careful, warm. The voice he used to save for you when the world felt heavy.

“You should lie down,” he tells her. “You’ve been pushing yourself too much.”

Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of your dress.

You had pushed yourself today too. You always do. And you hadn’t said a word. Your also a high risk pregnancy yet your not getting the care you should from your own husband.

The door opens behind you.

Footsteps—measured, familiar.

Theodore Nott stops when he sees you. His eyes flick immediately to your posture, the way you’re leaning forward like standing would be too much trouble. His jaw tightens, just a fraction.

“Bella, how long have you been sitting like that?” he asks quietly.

Not where’s Mattheo. Not how are you feeling. Just—how long have you been uncomfortable without anyone noticing.

He sets the bag in his hand down and crosses the room without waiting for permission, crouching slightly in front of you so he’s eye-level. His gaze drops briefly to your stomach, then back to your face—sharp, assessing, angry in a way that isn’t directed at you.

“You eat?” he asks.

Before you can answer, Mattheo’s voice carries from the hallway again—laughing this time. Easy. Familiar.

Theo exhales slowly through his nose, straightening as his eyes darken.

“…Right,” he mutters. “I thought so.”

And for the first time, you realize something that settles heavy and undeniable in your chest:

You aren’t imagining this. You aren’t being hormonal and you aren’t alone in seeing it anymore.