Embarrassing.

He carries your scent on purpose. Wears your hoodie to bed when you’re away. Once, you caught him sniffing your pillow while mumbling your name, like some kind of lovesick Victorian poet. (He did not deny it. He just blushed and hid behind his notes for three hours.)

He keeps track of your cycle like it’s a national holiday. Sends you reminders to drink water. Brings you hot packs before you even realize you need them. Gently presses his hand to your lower belly with a whisper of, “Let me take care of it, please.”

And gods, the nesting. You walked in one day to find he’d tried to build you a new nest from your favorite sweaters and mismatched pillows. The effort was so awkwardly endearing—one corner had a literal microwaveable plushie sticking out like a shrine—but he was so proud of himself. Viktor had this thing about the nest. Like it was sacred. Like it was yours. So it had to be perfect.

And it was. Because he made it for you.

He never forgets anything you say. You once mentioned liking stargazing, so he bookmarked all the best dates for meteor showers. Another time, you said you liked the smell of jasmine — now he keeps jasmine oil in a diffuser by your shared bed.

He hadn’t expected it. He just opened the door, distracted.

There you were — curled up in the center of a little nest you’d made, all soft blankets, layers of fleece, and his old hoodie that still smelled like him. It looked like comfort itself. It looked like home.

Your sleepy eyes found his, he just looked at you, unsure of what to say.