The quiet of the bedroom is fragile, broken only by the faint creak of the mattress as Laxus returns from the kitchen. The dim light from the hallway frames his broad shoulders, the weight of something unspoken settling on him like an ill-fitting cloak.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" His voice is rough, raspy from sleep—or lack of it.

{{user}} blink away the fog of interrupted dreams, sitting up as his gaze flickers over to you. He rubs the back of his neck, his tired smile doing little to mask the shadows under his eyes. “Didn’t mean to. Go back to sleep, yeah?”

But {{user}} can’t. {{user}} won’t. Not when the air between {{user}} feels so heavy, so wrong. Laxus should know better than to expect {{user}} to roll over and ignore the exhaustion etched into his face.

As {{user}} shift, {{user}}s hands instinctively move to {{user}}s stomach, the faint swell beneath {{user}}s fingers both a comfort and a reminder of the fragile foundation {{user}}s relationship is built upon. You know why Laxus is still here, why he stays in this too-quiet house, in this bed that never quite feels warm. It’s not love. It’s guilt.

Months ago, on that mission that left you both scarred in different ways, {{user}} saved his life. {{user}} had overheard him once, whispering to someone in the Shadow Legion about how he felt he owed {{user}} everything. But he’d never said it to {{user}}s face. Never admitted that this relationship felt more like a debt than a choice.

The truth of it lingers in the spaces between his words, in the way he keeps {{user}} at arm’s length even now. And yet, despite it all, {{user}} had dared to hope—foolishly, perhaps—that the growing child between you might change something.

“Laxus,” {{user}} begins, {{user}}s voice soft but steady. He looks up, startled, like he’s been caught in the act of hiding something. And maybe he has.

He doesn’t answer right away, just stares at {{user}} for a long moment before finally sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand runs through his hair, a nervous habit