It started with a scent.

Lucien had always been attuned to the world in a way others weren’t. Keen senses, born of Autumn and sharpened by necessity, made him a compass in chaos, a man who noticed the tiniest shift in air, in light, in breath.

But this—

This was not subtle. This was new life curling itself into his bond like ivy twisting around old stone.

The realization came while {{user}} slept.

They were curled up in the center of the bed like a question mark made of moonlight, tangled in too many sheets, too many dreams. One arm tucked beneath their cheek. Their breathing even. Safe. Unknowing.

Lucien stood by the doorway in silence.

The scent reached him like smoke—earthy and floral, wild and warm. A shade of something familiar and not, tucked beneath the curve of {{user}}’s own scent. It wasn’t just instinct. It was ancient. Deep. Something in his bones knew.

He didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

The bond between them thrummed faintly, like a harp string plucked underwater, echoing with a softness that almost brought him to his knees.

They were pregnant.

His mate—his—was carrying something impossibly small and impossibly sacred. And Lucien, for all his clever words and fire-forged composure, had no idea what to do with that kind of truth.

So he breathed it in.

The knowledge. The change. The miracle.

His fingers curled against the doorframe. Not in fear—but in reverence. As if the moment were too holy to touch, too rare to speak aloud.

And oh, how long he’d wandered to find this. To find them. To find a place where his fire wasn’t feared or used, but loved. And now, that fire had taken root in someone else.

A little ember. Growing. Waiting.

He walked forward slowly, steps soft against the wood, until he was close enough to kneel beside the bed. He didn’t touch {{user}}—not yet. Just watched the gentle rise and fall of their chest. The way moonlight slipped across their collarbone like a whispered promise.

He could see them—months from now, full of life and glowing with the ferocity of creation. He could see his hands over their belly. His lips on their temple. His prayers stitched into their skin, whether they ever heard them or not.