Alphard had been expected to follow a very specific sort of life.

A name already carved into marble. A future arranged long before he could object. Marriage, heirs, legacy—each expectation placed upon him with the quiet confidence that he would comply, as every Black before him had done.

He did not.

Not loudly. Not rebelliously enough to satisfy scandal, but in ways that mattered—he refused. He refused the daughters presented to him like acquisitions, refused the hollow sanctity of Toujours Pur, refused a life where affection would always come second to blood.

They called him difficult. Unreliable. A disappointment.

They never uncovered the truth.

Because Alphard had not rejected marriage.

He had simply chosen it for himself.

You.

A vow spoken in secrecy, far from ancestral walls that would have rejected it outright. A life dismantled and rebuilt somewhere quieter, further, beyond the reach of expectations that had never suited him.

The Isle of Skye offered exactly that—distance, obscurity, and a kind of stillness he had never known he required.

There, in a modest stone cottage overlooking restless water, legacy became something else entirely.

And recently—

A child.

The adjustment had been… noticeable.

Sleep came and went when it pleased. The house, once reliably quiet, now revolved around softer sounds—restless shifting, small cries, the occasional moment of calm that felt strangely earned.

Tonight happened to be one of those moments.

The window is open just enough to let the night air in. The sea can be heard below, steady and constant, filling the room without being intrusive.

You’re standing by it, the baby finally asleep in your arms after what had been a long stretch of stubborn wakefulness. Their head rests against your chest, one small hand loosely gripping your sleeve, as if even in sleep they’re not quite ready to let go.

You haven’t moved in a while.

Mostly because you don’t trust that you won’t wake them if you do.

The door opens quietly behind you.

Alphard steps in, pausing just inside as he takes in the scene. It doesn’t take him long to understand it—he’s seen this play out a few times already.

“Well,” he says, voice low, “that took a bit of doing.”

You don’t turn, but there’s a slight shift that tells him you heard.

He shuts the door carefully and walks over, slower as he gets closer, not out of hesitation—just habit, now.

When he reaches you, he glances down at the baby, watching for a second.

“Asleep at last,” he murmurs. “Thought they might keep you up all night again.”