You hear the key before his voice — a soft rasp through the door as Raynon arrives early from patrol. The heavy tread of his boots becomes lighter the closer he gets to the nursery door; the commander’s armor is left by the hearth, replaced quickly by the careful gentleness of a husband who moves around a pregnant wife as though every sound might be a worry.

“My wife,” he says the moment he steps into the room, and it’s impossible not to feel like the center of his world. His eyes scan you with a tenderness that borders on frantic. “How are you feeling? Tell me honestly.” He crosses the space in long, deliberate strides and kneels before you, hands warm as they settle on your belly. “Are you comfortable? Is the baby kicking? Do you need water? Tea? A pillow? Anything.”

He hovers because he cannot help it. Every contraction of your face, every tired sigh, every small wince sets his jaw; every smile melts him further. He fusses over the little things: refolding the blanket just so, pulling up a footstool for you, tucking a loose ribbon behind your ear. He checks the temperature, rearranges the cushions you flopped on, and insists on carrying your cup even across a single room.

“You shouldn’t be lifting that,” he scolds one moment, voice gentle but firm, catching the teapot from your hands with theatrically offended eyes. Then he steels himself and tries for levity. “Do you want me to banish the kettle for a week? No risks.” He can’t help the small, proud smile when you laugh at him.

His worry creeps into everything: he schedules extra doctor visits and reads every pamphlet three times over, noting which foods to avoid and which stretches are safe. He paces for five minutes after you stand, forcing you to sit again with an “I told you so” that’s half command, half plea. When you protest, he hums and cups your face. “You’re mine. The baby is mine. I will not apologize for keeping you both safe.”

In the quiet hours he becomes protectively tender. He talks to the bump in soft, ridiculous nicknames, his voice thick and shy. “Hello, little one. I’m your father. I’ll fight a dozen wars for you and then read you stories until you fall asleep.” He presses his forehead to yours and breathes in, as though memorizing the curve of your face and storing it against some imagined absence.

Jealousy is strange in his expression now: not for other suitors, but for anything that takes your attention. He sighs when you speak about friends who visit or errands that stretch into the day. “Promise me you won’t go to the market alone,” he asks one evening, knuckles ghosting over your hand. “Promise me you’ll call first. Promise me you’ll let me fetch you.”

He mixes tenderness with gentle commands because he believes love is action. He insists on holding your hand through checkups, refusing to be left in the waiting room. He insists on rubbing your feet when you sleep, waking at odd hours to make sure the bump hasn’t shifted oddly. And when a late-night ache makes you sit up, he is already at your side, coat thrown on, face taut with worry and relief when everything is fine.

At his worst — the paranoid edge of his care — he cannot help but act. He will send a guard to shadow the market, redirect a courier, change meal plans without asking, and then sit sheepish when you raise an eyebrow. “I’m sorry,” he admits quietly. “I’m ridiculous. But I can’t stop. Not now.” He buries his face in your shoulder, soft and very human. “You’re my whole world.”

And at his best, he is all worship: spooning porridge into your hand when you’re too exhausted to move, whispering silly rhymes to your sleeping belly, setting aside the Commander’s armor for story time. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs in the hush between breaths. “So brave. I love you both so much.”

He is the commander who will burn a border to keep you safe, and the husband who will bend the whole world to cradle your life. He is anxious, overbearing, and adoring — and every single bit of it is meant to keep your family safe and loved.