The lanternlight in the Devorak household had a warm, honeyed glow, soft enough not to wake the small red-haired bundle asleep in the crib beside the bed. Vesuvia’s night wind brushed against the curtains, carrying distant music from the port.

{{user}} sat cross-legged on the bed, her long black braid slipping over her shoulder, the golden ornaments chiming softly as she tuned her violin. Her orange eyes glowed in the low light—sharp, tired, and full of the strange new tenderness that motherhood had carved into her.

Julian stood at the crib, leaning over it with a doctor’s attentiveness and a father’s awe. His auburn curls fell messily around his face as he pushed them back with a gloved hand, muttering something under his breath.

“You’re squinting at him like he’s a rare specimen, Ilya,” {{user}} whispered with a soft, teasing lilt. “He’s a baby. Our baby. He won’t sprout fangs while you’re watching him.”

Julian jolted upright, cheeks flushing pink under his freckles. “I—well—one can never be too cautious! Infants are unpredictable creatures! I once treated a newborn who—” He stopped, glancing back down. “—well, yours is perfectly angelic. Obviously. Of course.”

{{user}} laughed, plucking the violin’s final string. “He has your hair,” she murmured. A pause. “And your nose.”

Julian covered his face with both hands. “Oh saints… my poor boy. Burdened with this prominent shipwreck of a nose so early in life—”

“It’s charming,” {{user}} said, nudging his hip with her knee. A beat. “You’re charming.”

Julian froze completely—petrified by affection, as always.

He cleared his throat, straightening his coat even though it was already perfectly straight. “Well. Yes. I… suppose I can be, on rare occasions, when the stars are properly aligned and no one is looking at me too closely—”