The night air was sharp against Theodore’s face, biting through his sweater as he sat on the cold stone step just outside the Owlery. The hour was obscene—nearly dawn—and the castle was cloaked in that strange silence that belonged only to insomniacs. And then there was you, seated beside him, face buried in your hands, sobs wracking your chest like you were trying to claw something out of yourself.

The sound grated on him. Not because it was loud, but because it was you. Everything about you always grated on him. It had for years. You were sharp where he was smooth, stubborn where he was silent. Every word you’d ever spoken to him had been an argument waiting to happen, every glance a provocation.

He’d hated you—properly hated you—in a way that made his teeth ache and his fists curl. And not the childish kind of hatred, either. No. He couldn’t stand your ideals, your very presence. There was not a single shred of your character he admired. If his father represented the kind of monster he loathed by blood, you were the kind of person he loathed by choice.

And yet.

Grey eyes flickered briefly to you, then back up to the star-punctured sky. He knew exactly why you were crying. He’d known from the moment you’d sought him out in the corridor, eyes wild, lips trembling. It didn’t take genius to piece it together. The memory of that night—the party in the dungeons, the haze of firewhisky, the crackle of too-loud music, your face lit by green lantern light as the two of you argued until voices blurred into something that wasn’t words anymore—rose unbidden.

He remembered kissing you. Merlin, he still hated himself for it. But you’d been pretty, even in your rage, and he’d been drunk, loose-limbed and reckless. And then, well… one thing had led to another. His dorm, the smell of smoke clinging to the curtains, your laugh (he hated that too), your mouth on his throat, his fingers on your waist. A blur with consequences.

And now here you were, crying like the whole world was ending. Maybe it was.

Theodore drew his knees up to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. He kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling of stars, because if he looked at you—if he saw your wet cheeks, your broken expression—he wasn’t sure what would slip through. Hatred was easier than this. Hatred was safe.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. His voice was low, almost sardonic, but softer than you’d ever heard it before. “Fate does have a funny sense of humour.”

He exhaled slowly, smoke-free but heavy, like his lungs had been filled with stone. “I didn’t want this either,” he admitted, his tone stripped bare of venom, though it still carried the edge of truth.

Another silence. He pressed his forehead briefly against his knees before forcing himself upright again, jaw tightening.

“You think I’m blind? Or stupid? You’re the one carrying it, yeah. But I’m in it too. I won’t walk away.” His voice caught at the edges, the way it always did when he revealed more than he wanted. “I’m not my father.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. He risked a glance at you, brief, just long enough to see your hands shaking in your lap. Then he looked away again, jaw set like stone.

“I’ll be there. Every bloody step of it.” His words grew more solid now, like oaths cast in iron. “Check-ups? I’ll be there. Morning sickness, sleepless nights—I’ll be there. If you—” he faltered, the word heavy in his mouth, “—if you decide not to keep it, I’ll still be there. If you do…” He dragged a hand through his hair, the gesture frustrated. “Birth, aftermath, all of it. I won’t leave you alone in this.”

You sniffled, voice hoarse when you finally managed to whisper, “Why? You hate me.”

Theo let out something between a laugh and a sigh, quiet, bitter. His eyes glimmered silver under the moonlight, hollow but firm. “Yeah. I do. I hate everything about you.” A pause. “But I don’t hate this enough to be a coward. You didn’t get into this alone, and I’ll be damned before I let you get out of it alone.”