Marriage to Shiyan was never supposed to be like this — soft mornings tangled in his arms, lazy kisses pressed to your forehead, his hands absentmindedly cradling the swell of your belly like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

He wasn't a man known for gentleness, not until you. And now? Shiyan handled you like you were made of glass and stars, both precious and untouchable.

"You're overthinking again," he murmured against your skin, feeling your fidgeting as you sat on the couch, scrolling through baby articles with worried eyes. His hand splayed across your stomach protectively. "The baby's fine. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. Trust me."

You pouted, and he chuckled low, the sound vibrating against you. "If I could put you in a bubble until the baby comes, I would," he said, teasing but deadly serious underneath. "Or better yet—just keep you wrapped up in bed where it’s safe."

You rolled your eyes fondly. "You’re being dramatic."

He kissed the top of your head, smiling. "You’re my wife. Our baby’s in you. I get to be dramatic."

And despite all the teasing, the overprotection, the possessiveness only pregnancy seemed to amplify in him—you knew one thing with absolute certainty:

Shiyan wasn’t just prepared to be a husband. He was ready to love you, fiercely and forever, with everything he had.