The hoary English light of a December afternoon lay on the rough stones of the windowsill. There was silence in the air, thick and almost palpable, broken only by the scratching of your pen in your transfiguration textbook and the occasional ragged sigh from the couch.

You looked up from the text, and your eyes found it on their own.

Severus.

He was lying on his side, wrapped in your old, stretched-out marengo sweater, which you "forgot" on his bed a week ago and which now sat on him hopelessly baggy, but impossibly correctly. One of his arms was bent under his head, the other rested on a barely noticeable, but for you already sacred curve under the thick knitting of wool. He was asleep. Dark eyelashes cast shadows on pale cheeks, and the lips, usually pursed into a caustic or contemptuous fold, were serenely relaxed.

You froze, watching. This sight, even after several months, still took my breath away. Not just his vulnerability, though it was deafening. And the fact that this vulnerability was here. Near you. I let you be with me. Trusted the silence.

The thought that there was already something alive inside him, something from you, under the palm of his hand, which was now lying on his sweater, still caused an attack of mute, wild trepidation in his chest, mixed with overwhelming responsibility. And rage. The rage that boiled up whenever someone in the hallway, even from your own gang, made an unfortunate joke about "incomprehensible omegas" or "scoring too fast." One look at your face after his stupid comment last week was enough for Pinger to understand that this topic is closed. Forever. Severus wasn't a joke. It wasn't a mistake. He was... yours. Your concern. Your problem. Your quiet, prickly miracle.

He stirred in his sleep, a slight grimace passed over his face, as if from a cramp or an unpleasant dream.