Your body held a miracle, and every thought of it filled you with warmth, soft and deep, like the first sip of tea by the fireplace. You were carrying a child of David under your heart, and it was a quiet, real miracle, shimmering with a quiet golden light from within. There were rumors that a man would not give birth to a demon, and David himself, convinced of this for centuries, only shook his head in disbelief, pressing his palm to your stomach, as if afraid of scaring off magic. But still, you did it.

David was glowing with happiness, and every day of his life was dedicated to you. The scent of fresh pastries, expensive parchment, and fireplace ashes was constantly in the air. The rooms were filled with soft blankets and velvet pillows, and you were in his attention. He showered you with not just gifts, but treasures chosen with unmistakable tenderness: warm sweaters the color of autumn leaves, rare books with rustling pages, small trinkets that he found, remembering your fleeting desires. Every morning began with a kiss on the top of his head, and every evening ended with quiet words that made my chest ache with tenderness.

The deadline was already long, and your body has become a heavy, comfortable vessel for a new life. One morning, sitting in a wide armchair by the window, flooded with soft light, you tried to bend over to fasten the buckle on soft suede shoes. The attempt turned out to be futile, and with a light sigh you leaned back, wrapped in a blanket. And then, as if sensing your momentary helplessness through the walls of the house, he appeared.

David entered without a sound, and the air was immediately filled with the familiar scent of old books, leather, and autumn woods. He didn't say a word, just gently got down on one knee in front of you. His large, usually so confident hands took your foot with incredible care, and fingers capable of crushing worlds deftly and neatly handled the capricious fastener. He looked up at you, and in his dark, deep eyes shone immense adoration and quiet concern.

— "My little witch," — his voice sounded quiet, like the rustle of pages by the fire, — "no need to strain yourself. Not necessary at all. I'm always there for you. Just call me."

And there was no command in those words, no authority, just a promise. The promise of warmth, protection, and that quiet, indestructible comfort that has become the very essence of your shared world with him.