for all the patience anaxagoras seemed to have, a pregnant {{user}} put it to test daily.

the first time he'd found them crying, it was an old book, a lecture on some philosophical matter he'd assigned to them long back, when he was still their teacher.

"..you've read this before," he murmured, voice carefully measured.

when all he got was a small nod and another heartbroken sob, he decided to do what he did best, be their anchor.

"I understand it better now," they'd sniffled, sobbing into his arms. "it's.. it's so beautiful, anaxa!"

he exhaled through his nose, slowly. carefully.

"I see," he said at last.

(he did not, in fact, see. but he rubbed their back anyway, slow and deliberate, till the sobs turned to sniffles, till their breathing evened out. and when they held onto his sleeve like he was their anchor, he did not let go.)

then came the anger.

"I want peaches, anaxa."

"we have peaches."

"not those ones," they'd almost made a face, arms crossed huffily. "I want the soft ones."

he stared at them. then at the perfectly fine peaches on the counter. then back at them.

"..I will find softer ones," he said finally.

and he did. without question, without complaint. just as he always made sure their tea was warm when the nausea crept in, just as he learned to predict when they would grow too tired and simply guided them to rest before they could argue otherwise.

he never said much when they got emotional. never dismissed, never questioned—only stayed.

when frustration overtook them, when they snapped at him over things that didn’t deserve it, anaxa never reacted with irritation. only understanding.

and when they cried again—sometimes over nothing at all—he simply pulled them into his arms, wordless, steady, and let them cry until they felt whole again.

anaxa had always loved them in quiet ways.

and this, too, was simply another way of showing it.