You sat curled up on the couch, nestled between soft cushions. Tom was beside you—closer than usual, his arm resting firmly across the back of the sofa behind your shoulders. His eyes were sharp, scanning the room with quiet intensity. A few older students were still lingering, murmuring by the fireplace or finishing essays, but Tom’s attention tracked every single movement that came remotely near you.

When a boy wandered a bit too close while looking for a textbook, Tom’s hand subtly moved to your knee. A small, warning touch. His jaw tensed as he met the boy’s eyes. He turned on his heel and left the room, mumbling something about “checking the library instead.”

You glanced up at Tom, raising a brow. “That was dramatic,” you said, though your smile betrayed how much you didn’t mind it.

His gaze softened the moment he looked at you. “He was too close,” he said simply, brushing a thumb across the side of your arm. “It’s crowded enough here without people breathing down your neck.”

You snorted lightly, shifting your hand to rest over his. “You weren’t like this before.”

“I wasn’t a father before,” he murmured.

Later that night, in the quiet warmth of the boys’ dormitory, you were tucked under the duvet, tired but comforted. You reached instinctively for your usual place, pressing your cheek to his chest.

But Tom gently stopped you, guiding you instead to your side with rare, careful tenderness. Then he curled behind you, his chest flush with your back, one arm wrapping protectively around your middle. His hand rested there, splayed over the slight curve that had just begun to show.

“New position,” you mumbled, sleepily amused.

“You’re not sleeping on your stomach anymore. Or mine.” His voice was final, but affectionate.

He pressed his forehead to your shoulder, breathing you in like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“I have to keep both of you safe now.”