The patio behind the greenhouses is bathed in that perfect midday glow—sun high and steady, pouring golden warmth over everything until the stone bench feels almost hot against the backs of your thighs and the rough wood under your palms. The big oak tree stretches wide above, branches heavy with late-summer leaves that shift and rustle in the gentle breeze, sending cool flickers of shadow across your face, Cedric’s hands, the napkin scattered with crumbs and the last wedge of apple pie. Every inhale brings layers of scent: the sharp, resinous green of rosemary bushes baking in the sun, the softer mint that grows wild along the path, the faint earthy dampness of turned soil from morning watering, and closer—the rich, buttery-salt warmth rising from the cooling chips still in their little pile, the sweet spiced steam curling up from the pie where cinnamon and baked apple mingle thick and heady.

Your belly has settled into a deep, heavy fullness now, round and prominent under your jumper. The fabric clings smooth across the top curve, stretched enough that you can feel every thread pulling gently with each breath. Inside, everything is packed dense and warm: layers of thick ham and melted cheese from the sandwiches, the crisp-then-soft chew of vinegar-soaked chips, the lingering fizz of butterbeer that’s mostly gone flat but still leaves a faint tingle, and now the slow, syrupy weight of apple pie filling—soft chunks of fruit suspended in sticky cinnamon sugar, flaky pastry dissolving into buttery richness on your tongue. The whole mass rests low and solid, pressing forward so the underside brushes the tops of your thighs when you shift; every small movement sends a lazy, liquid roll through it—deep gurgles, faint pops of gas finding space, the warm stretch of skin tightening then easing as things settle again.

Cedric is right beside you, close enough that his shoulder stays in steady contact with yours, the wool of his robes brushing your sleeve with each slow breath he takes. He smells faintly of fresh air and sun-warmed cotton, a trace of broom polish still clinging to him from practice, clean sweat dried on his skin. His arm rests along the back of the bench, not wrapped around you yet but near enough that you feel the heat of it behind your neck, the quiet promise of support. His other hand has found your belly again—palm broad and warm, fingers naturally splayed so they cover most of the rounded swell without crowding. He doesn’t press hard at first; he just rests there, letting his hand rise and fall with your breathing, feeling the steady rhythm of it, the solid warmth radiating through the jumper into his skin.

After a long, comfortable silence—only leaves rustling, a distant laugh from the lawns, the hum of a bee circling the lavender—he starts to move his hand. Slow circles, wide and gentle, tracing the high, firm dome where the fullness feels tightest. You can feel the slight drag of wool over sensitive skin, the way the surface yields just a fraction under his palm before springing back, taut and warm. His thumb follows the side curve where your belly flares widest, stroking up and down in long, soothing lines that make every inch of stretch more present—the skin so full it hums faintly with each pass, tiny goosebumps rising where cooler air sneaks under the hem.

You take another small forkful of pie—warm apple soft against your teeth, crust crumbling buttery-sweet, cinnamon blooming sharp on your tongue—and he feels the fresh addition right away. His hand flattens, heel sinking gently into the center just below your navel; the pressure is careful, considerate, but enough to make you aware of the layered density inside—the heavy mass shifting downward with a deep, rolling gurgle that vibrates straight into his palm like a quiet drum. A soft bubble rises; you let out a warm, spiced burp—cinnamon and apple drifting past his cheek—and he only smiles, small and genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and kind, barely louder than the breeze. “Just let it settle.”