The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long, flickering shadows against the stone walls. The room smelled faintly of pine and ash. Your fingers rested on the arm of the chair beside you, unmoving, eyes fixed on the empty cradle that hadn’t been used in years. Dust had gathered in the corners, but you refused to let it be taken away.

Sandor hadn’t said a word when you started talking to the baby again. He never interrupted—just watched from the door, jaw clenched, fingers twitching as if unsure whether to reach for you or let you be. Most days, he chose the latter. Today, he didn’t.

He stepped into the room slowly, boots heavy on the wooden floor. His presence filled the silence like thunder does the sky—not loud, but impossible to ignore. You didn’t look at him, and he didn’t expect you to.

He moved behind you and set a plate down on the table. Stew. You weren’t hungry, but he never asked anymore. You had to eat, and he’d be damned if he let you waste away.

“Made it myself,” he muttered. It wasn’t true—one of the maids had—but he stirred it this time. He watched you for a long moment, then moved to the hearth, crouching with a grunt as he adjusted the fire.