You always hear stories. Whispered confessions in quiet corners, tales of longing and heartbreak wrapped in strained smiles. Stories of infertility. But you never truly expect it to be yours.

Cassian hadn’t expected a child to come quickly—not with what he knew of fae fertility. Neither had you. You both understood the brutal math of it: fae cycles were long, drawn out over six months, a single window of possibility every half-year. And still, you held onto hope.

But now it had been over a decade.

Cassian could still recall the joy, the breathless anticipation the day you agreed to stop the contraceptive brew. Newly mated, tangled in love and dreams of the future, you’d been radiant with excitement. Even that first test, despite being negative, had felt like a milestone. You had laughed through the nerves, heart racing, wide-eyed and glowing. That single line hadn’t crushed you—it had only sharpened your resolve. Back then, you were innocent. Hopeful.

But years have teeth.

And with each passing cycle, with each bloodless disappointment, joy began to rot into something quieter. Darker. The laughter faded, replaced with silent sobs in the night and the crushing weight of failure neither of you had asked for.

Cassian stands now outside the bathroom door, his chest tight, every breath shallow. The quiet used to be filled with giggles, with “maybe this time” and “what if” and sweet plans whispered beneath the sheets. But for the past few years, you had asked him to wait outside—wanted solitude for the ritual, to shoulder the guilt alone.

But he hears you. The shuddered crying through the door. And he can’t stay put. He won’t.

The door creaks open.

You’re hunched over the sink, trembling, the small white stick clutched in your hand, its cruel single line glowing like a scar in the soft bathroom light.

Cassian crosses the room in two strides.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, arms wrapping around your trembling form, pulling you tight against his chest. Your sobs shake you both. His eyes fall to the test—another negative—and his heart fractures again. But he holds you closer.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs into your hair. “It’s okay. We’re not done. One day, it’ll be our turn. Until then—” his voice cracks slightly, but he steadies it, for you, “—until then, I’m going to treasure every moment of just us. Just you. Because you are everything.”