You’d known your heat was coming.

The signs had crept in slowly—restlessness, the way your skin tingled when Aemond was near, how even his scent seemed more intoxicating than usual. You’d told yourself you had time. You’d made a list. You’d ordered soft blankets, fluffed the bedding, even gathered your favorite shirts of his to line the space with that familiar, grounding scent.

But then it hit early—hard and fast.

And now, the room was cold and quiet, the nest unfinished, your body burning with need and nowhere to go.

You curled up on the floor where you’d meant to finish building it, a half-folded blanket clutched in your hands, surrounded by disarray and the ache of disappointment. Tears stung your eyes, not from the heat, not from the pull deep in your belly—but from the overwhelming shame of not being ready.

It felt like failure. Like you’d failed yourself. Like you’d failed him.

The door creaked open, and you turned your head weakly as Aemond stepped in.

He stilled.

You didn’t have to say anything. His eye moved over the half-built nest, the scattered clothing, the trembling line of your body.

“Darling…” he said softly.

Aemond was kneeling beside you before you could hide your face. His scent—warm spice and something ancient—rushed around you like a shield, and you whimpered instinctively, reaching for him.