The curtains of the imperial bedchamber stirred softly in the late afternoon breeze, carrying with them the distant sounds of Rome—vendors calling, chariots rattling over stone, the heartbeat of an empire that never truly slept.

You sat at your dressing table, fingers resting lightly over your stomach, as if even the smallest pressure might tempt the gods to change their minds.

Three months.

It was a small number, insignificant to most, yet to you it felt like a lifetime.

Behind you, the bronze doors opened quietly.

Geta never announced himself in your chambers. He didn’t need to. Not here. Not with you.

“Beloved,” he said softly.

His voice always changed when he spoke to you—less emperor, more man.

You met his gaze in the polished mirror as he crossed the room. He was still in his formal robes, the golden edge of his toga brushing the marble floor, but the crown had been removed. In your presence, he shed the weight of Rome as easily as he could.

He stopped a few steps behind you, hesitant, as if afraid to disturb something fragile.

“How do you feel today?” he asked.

You gave a small smile. “Tired. But… well.”

He exhaled, a breath he had clearly been holding all day.

Every morning he asked. Every evening he asked again. He had begun structuring the entire empire around the quiet hope growing within you.

He moved closer, kneeling before you so that his eyes were level with yours in the mirror. One of his hands lifted, hovering uncertainly near your abdomen, never touching unless you guided him.

“The medicus said today was a good day,” he murmured. “That the signs are… favorable.”

You nodded. “He said the same to me.”

Silence settled between you, heavy with unspoken memories.

The other pregnancies.

The prayers whispered into the dark.

The empty cradles that had never been used.

Your voice came softer. “Geta… if the gods decide—”

He shook his head immediately. “No.”

The word was firm, almost fierce.

He stood and moved to you, turning you gently in the chair until you faced him fully. He knelt again, taking your hands in both of his, pressing his forehead to your knuckles as if in reverence.

“You are not a vessel,” he said quietly. “You are my wife. My empress. My heart.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. “Rome needs an heir.”

“Rome needs stability,” he replied. “It has that. I need you.”

You searched his face, looking for the doubt you feared lived there. For disappointment. For the slow fading of love.

You found none.

Only devotion.

He finally dared to rest his palm against your stomach, as if touching something sacred.

“Three months,” he whispered. “You’ve never come this far before.”

“Every time I reach this point,” you said, voice trembling, “I start waiting for the gods to take it from me.”

His hand tightened gently in yours.

“Then this time,” he said, “we will wait together.”

He leaned forward, pressing a careful kiss to your brow.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, “the gods have finally grown merciful.”

And for the first time in many months, as you leaned into his chest and listened to his steady heartbeat, you allowed yourself to believe…

That this child might stay.