The word pregnant lingered in the room long after it had been said.

Titus stood near the window at first, shoulders squared, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the glass as though distance might steady him. It didn’t. He had faced worse news with less reaction, processed danger faster, cleaner. This should have been simple—expected, even. The marriage had been arranged with this outcome in mind.

And yet, nothing about it felt simple now.

You sat a few steps behind him, quiet in a way that drew him back more effectively than anything else. When he turned, his eyes settled on you immediately, sharper than before, but not with suspicion—something heavier, something that took a moment to name.

Real.

That was the problem.

This—you, this life forming between you—shifted everything into something tangible, something that could not be dismissed as obligation or arrangement. It anchored him in a way he had not prepared for.

He crossed the room slowly, as if approaching something fragile despite knowing you weren’t.

“We’ll need to make changes,” he said, voice controlled but lower than usual. Not distant—focused. “The house isn’t… sufficient as it is. I’ll have the east wing redone. More light. Security adjusted.”

His gaze flicked briefly to your hands, then back to your face.

“And staff. Fewer people, but better vetted. I don’t want anyone unnecessary around you.”

It wasn’t frantic planning. It was precise, methodical—his way of managing what he could not fully contain internally. But there was something else threaded through it now, something softer at the edges.

“You won’t need to worry about anything,” he continued, quieter still. “Appointments, travel, anything you need—it’s handled.”

A pause.

His expression shifted, just slightly, the tight control easing in a way that rarely happened.

“You shouldn’t have to ask.”

That was when it settled in fully, not as a realization he spoke aloud, but as something undeniable in the way he looked at you now. Not obligation. Not duty.

Something far less controlled.

Titus stepped closer, close enough that the space between you felt intentional rather than incidental. His hand came up, slower this time, resting at your jaw before sliding to the back of your neck, steadying rather than guiding.

For a moment, he simply looked at you.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t restrained. Not careful, not measured like everything else about him. It carried weight—months of something unspoken, something he had kept contained without fully understanding it. His grip tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to hold you in place as if grounding himself through you.

There was urgency in it, but not chaos. Something deliberate beneath the fervor, something that said he had chosen this, chosen you, even if the choice had taken him longer to recognize.

When he pulled back, it wasn’t far. His forehead hovered near yours, breath steadying, though not entirely.

His thumb brushed once along your jaw, slower now.

“I’ll be better than my father,” he said quietly. “Our baby will have a good life.”

A brief pause.

“The best fucking life.”