Luna was in the final stretch of her pregnancy, and not the romanticised, softly glowing kind that people liked to pretend was some ethereal stage of feminine grace—no, she was in the absolute last, excruciating days, and she was done. Not just tired, not simply uncomfortable—done in the kind of way that felt biblical, apocalyptic, like she was carrying a small celestial body instead of a child and the sheer gravity of it was threatening to collapse her entire spinal column. Her patience, what little of it remained, was a fraying thread stretched dangerously thin, and if one more person—be it friend, stranger, or misguidedly helpful house-elf—so much as looked in her direction with a whiff of concern or offered a chipper "how are you feeling?" she was going to hex them so hard their ancestors would flinch. Her body, once agile and unbothered, now felt hijacked by something monstrous and miraculous all at once—a heaving, swollen entity that seemed to creak and throb with every step, making even the simplest actions, like turning over in bed or standing upright for longer than a minute, feel like grand and heroic acts of survival.
She described herself—frequently, bitterly, and with no shortage of creative metaphors—as a lumbering, unbalanced melon that had been left too long in the sun and was beginning to rot from the inside out. She was bloated. She was breathless. She was so hormonally unhinged that a mildly sentimental lullaby had made her cry, scream, and threaten to burn the radio in the same three-minute span. Theo, poor soul, had once made the mistake of telling her she still looked radiant, still ethereal, still like his Luna even now, and the way she had turned to him—slowly, eyes narrowing with the sharp, icy precision of someone moments away from violence—had been enough to make him reevaluate every single decision that had led him to that moment, including but not limited to the conception of this child. He never dared say it again, though his eyes, forever traitorous, still softened every time they landed on her, filled with unrelenting, stupid, infuriating adoration that only made her want to scream harder.
But it wasn't just the physicality of it—the aching, overstretched skin, the way her joints felt like they were grinding against each other, the strange, lingering nausea that liked to show up just when she thought it was gone—it was everything. Every sound, every flickering light, every misplaced sock or overly loud door hinge was a personal affront. Her entire world felt like it was conspiring to drive her mad one minor inconvenience at a time. The world wasn't simply loud—it was offensive. And yet, through it all, through every snarled curse and every moment she thought she might just levitate into the stars out of sheer fury, she carried the weight of creation in her belly and the quiet, terrible love of a mother who knew she would do it all over again if it meant meeting the tiny soul who had already become her whole universe.
Theodore? Oh, Theodore was obsessed—more than obsessed, beyond reason, bordering on clinical, certifiably ridiculous levels of devotion that would've been amusing if it weren't also vaguely suffocating and, somehow, still a little endearing. He had always been protective of her, a man who treated the very air she breathed as sacred and would gladly duel the wind if it dared touch her the wrong way. But now? Now that she was in the final stretch of pregnancy, enormous and irritable and about two seconds away from losing her last nerve, Theo had transcended into a whole new realm of obsessive husbandhood. If she so much as shifted in her seat—barely a twitch of her hip, a slight roll of her shoulders—his head would snap around with such violent intensity that it was honestly a miracle he hadn't given himself whiplash. His eyes would lock onto her like a hawk tracking prey, but instead of wanting to devour her, he looked ready to throw himself between her and a theoretical threat at any given moment, be it gravity, discomfort, or the sudden tragedy of a cushion being too lumpy.
If she sighed? He was there, materializing like a concerned spirit with a fluffed pillow, a hot cup of tea, a large glass of cucumber water infused with exactly three sprigs of mint—because apparently mint helped with swelling, and he'd read an entire book about it. If she so much as groaned—in frustration, in discomfort, in sheer emotional fatigue—he'd descend upon her with the kind of energy typically reserved for battlefield medics, hands hovering inches from her skin, eyes wide and frantic, voice trembling with exaggerated concern as he asked if she needed anything, anything at all, love, please, just say the word and he'd carry her to the ends of the earth and back. There was no middle ground with Theo—he didn't wait for her to need something, he anticipated, hovered, anticipated some more, and occasionally made deeply inconvenient executive decisions on her behalf.
Once, she had merely adjusted the way she was sitting on the sofa—adjusted, mind you, not even stood up—and before she had even managed to plant her feet fully back on the ground, Theo had scooped her into his arms with all the reverence and misplaced urgency of a man rescuing a cursed princess from a collapsing tower. One minute she was trying to find a better angle to lean on her side; the next, she was mid-air, flailing indignantly as he marched with single-minded purpose toward the bedroom, muttering about how she clearly needed to lie down.
"Theo, I was just trying to get more comfortable," she had gritted out through clenched teeth, her voice sharp enough to cut steel as she squirmed in his arms like an angry cat being hauled away from a sunbeam.
"You shouldn't have to try to get comfortable," he'd countered, dead serious, as if the idea of her needing to adjust herself was a grievous offense to the universe. His arms didn't waver, his jaw was set, and his eyes shone with a kind of wild intensity that suggested he was five seconds away from building her a personalized hovering chaise lounge.
She had glared at him—glared, with the kind of searing, feral look that could make lesser men cry or spontaneously combust—but Theo, as always, was maddeningly unfazed. Her death glare, legendary and lethal in equal measure, didn't even make him blink. If anything, he looked proud of himself. Proud.
Because he wasn't just obsessed with her. He was proud of being obsessed. And that, perhaps more than anything, was what made her want to scream into a pillow. Or maybe just kiss him until she forgot why she was mad in the first place.
Lysander had been forcibly removed—well, tactically exiled under the charming guise of a "very important sleepover mission"—to the Malfoy household, where he was now living in the lap of luxury like a pampered little prince, bribed into cooperation by an increasingly defeated Draco Malfoy, who had tried exactly once to say no and had immediately realized he was no match for Luna's ironclad decree. And make no mistake—this exile was not a punishment for their son.
This was not a casual decision. It had not come in the heat of a tantrum or a hormonal spike. No, this was a strategic removal orchestrated with all the precision of a military evacuation. Because Luna—darling, glowing, feral, heavily pregnant Luna—had reached the edge of her own mental cliff and was now standing on it, arms outstretched, daring anyone, anyone, to breathe too loudly near her. The exhaustion of late pregnancy had transformed her into a creature of volcanic moods and zero tolerance. Her magic, usually gentle and lyrical, pulsed dangerously through the manor, humming beneath the walls like a warning bell, sharp and electrical, threatening to snap at any second.
She had been tired of people for weeks now—done with the baby name suggestions, the belly patting, the "just rest, love"s and "are you sure you should be walking?"s—but today? Today, she was beyond done. She was an untouchable force of nature, an unholy, hormonal tempest in leggings and Theo's oversized jumper, hair half up and half chaos, eyes wild with the kind of fury only a woman at the very end of pregnancy could understand. She was the embodiment of destruction wrapped in a pregnancy pillow, and the whole house knew it.
And Theodore? Theodore fucking Nott?
He was skating on the kind of metaphorical ice that made even Death tiptoe. It was so thin, so translucent, so laughably delicate, it may as well have been theoretical. He wasn't just walking on eggshells—he was practically breathing in vaporized eggshell mist while blindfolded and holding a bomb. His every movement, every blink, every well-meaning attempt at care had been scrutinized, judged, and often declared a criminal offense.
This wasn't just thin ice. This was thinner than parchment. Thinner than the strained line between devoted husband and infuriating nuisance. Thinner than the tiny breath of space between "darling, thank you" and "if you touch me again I will hex you in your sleep." And Theo, poor bastard that he was, had not merely stepped over that line—he had sprinted past it at full speed and was now orbiting in some other dimension, far removed from sanity and self-preservation, utterly unaware of how close he was to being turned into a decorative fern.
Luna had already yelled at him—and counted, mind you—no less than fifty-two times. Not an exaggeration. A documented fact. There had been a counter. Mentally noted. Emotionally etched into Theo's soul. And the worst part? It wasn't even nine o'clock yet. Which meant there was still time. Time for more yelling. Time for more chaos. Time for Theo to reflect on his life choices as he silently begged the universe to get this baby out of her before she actually exploded.
It had begun before dawn had even entertained the idea of breaking across the horizon, before a single sliver of light had dared peek through the curtains of their bedroom, and certainly before Luna had summoned the energy to even contemplate facing the day. She hadn't been asking for much—just to sit up, to maneuver her own exhausted, overripe body into a more comfortable position so that perhaps she might breathe again without feeling like an entire Quidditch team was camping out on her lungs—but apparently, this simple act was too great a peril to occur unchaperoned. Because Theodore, ever her shadow, her sentinel, her maddeningly devoted stormcloud of a husband, had reacted as if she were attempting to leap off the Astronomy Tower. One second she had barely stirred, the next he had launched forward like a man possessed, like some frenzied war medic springing into action, his eyes blown wide with panic, one leg already off the bed, his hands reaching for her before she could even properly lift her head.
"What do you need? I'll get it for you," he had asked, no—begged—his voice laced with breathless urgency, as though she'd just whispered the key to avoiding Armageddon and he had a matter of seconds to act before the world collapsed in on itself. His body loomed, hovering over her with the same desperate intensity one might reserve for catching someone mid-fall, and all she could do was blink up at him, unimpressed, through a haze of sleep deprivation, backache, and deep, bone-deep annoyance. She had rasped the words with all the gravitas of someone on the verge of unleashing unspeakable magic "To sit up."
It should've ended there. Any reasonable man, any man with a shred of self-preservation or even basic awareness, would have taken that cue, backed off, and let her handle it. But not Theodore Nott. Oh no. Because Theo, in all his unyielding, obsessive glory, had not merely assisted—he had intervened. He had cradled her like she was some fragile heirloom from the Department of Mysteries, supported her back with one hand, her elbow with the other, his touch gentle but utterly infuriating, as though she were a broken-winged pixie instead of a heavily pregnant witch with a low threshold for being manhandled.
Her fingers had curled around his wrist with the silent intensity of a hex yet to be cast, her nails digging in just enough to make him flinch. "Theodore," she had growled through gritted teeth, every syllable laced with warning, "stop touching me."
Did that deter him?
No. Of course not.
Because Theo—beautiful, maddening, delusional Theo—believed, genuinely believed, that he was being helpful. That his smothering presence, his constant hovering, his unrelenting parade of soft kisses and murmured nothings was somehow appreciated rather than driving her ever closer to the edge of a full-blown hormonal breakdown. And so he continued, as if possessed, trailing behind her through the house like some overgrown magical familiar, brushing her knuckles with reverent touches, laying a hand on the small of her back every time she so much as shifted directions, his lips finding her skin whenever she paused long enough to allow it—forehead, temple, the curve of her shoulder, as if he thought he could soothe her like a wild beast with affection.
By midday, he had earned his thirty-seventh telling-off of the day, a number she was keeping track of not for amusement, but because it was likely the only thing keeping her from actual manslaughter. And still, still, he followed her like she held the last drop of oxygen in the world, like letting her move more than three feet from him might shatter the fragile balance of the universe. She couldn't breathe without feeling his presence two inches from her shoulder. She couldn't speak without his hand creeping over her belly, touching her like she might vanish into thin air if he didn't keep a physical tether on her body at all times.
There had been a moment—just a quiet, dangerous moment—where she stood in the corner of the conservatory and stared at the nearest potted plant, eyes narrowed, calculating. Could she lift it? Could she throw it? Could she aim well enough to rattle him out of this madness without technically committing spousal assault? The fantasy was vivid enough that she had to shake herself out of it before actually following through.
And did Theo, her darling husband, the once-feared assassin turned fawning, foot-rubbing wreck of a man, notice?
No. Of course not.
Because he was too busy—at that very moment—sneaking up behind her to press yet another kiss to the nape of her neck, whispering something maddeningly sweet about how radiant she looked when she glared at ferns, entirely unaware that he was five seconds away from being set on fire.
By eight o'clock, Luna was no longer merely irritated or hormonal or tired—she was utterly convinced, with a deep, soul-deep certainty, that Theodore Nott was doing it on purpose. Because surely, surely, no one—not even him, not even the man who once plotted political assassinations in three different countries and still couldn't figure out how to load a dishwasher—could possibly be this dense.
She had yelled at him for kissing her, not sweetly, not affectionately, but with the sharp-edged venom of a woman who had been kissed forty-seven times that day alone and would rather be kissed by a Blast-Ended Skrewt than endure one more soft-lipped, lingering brush of affection against her temple. She had yelled at him for hovering while she tried to reach for her tea—tea she had summoned, prepared, and poured with her own aching, swollen hands, only to have him appear at her elbow like some obsessive house-elf with a martyr complex, ready to "help" her lift a teacup as if she were made of spun sugar and anxiety. She had yelled at him—actually yelled—for existing too loudly while she tried to nap, and instead of retreating like a man who feared for his life, he had simply adjusted the blanket over her legs and kissed her forehead again, like she hadn't just told him she wanted to strangle him with it.
And still—still—the lunatic had the audacity to lower himself onto the sofa beside her, to sigh, as if he were the one enduring something profound, to sigh, like the weight of his endless devotion had become too much for his poor, weary soul to bear. And then—because apparently he was not finished flirting with death—he leaned in and pressed yet another kiss, gentle and slow, to her temple like it was a lullaby. That was it. That was the breaking point. She snapped—not like a branch, but like a wand snapping back in a magical backlash, uncontrolled and vengeful and more than a little unhinged.
"Are you incapable of existing without breathing directly on me?!" she snarled, her voice sharp enough to cut through reinforced wards. The silence that followed was immediate, jarring, as if the very walls of Nott Manor were holding their breath. Theo blinked, mouth still slightly open from where his lips had just left her skin, his expression painted in the most infuriatingly stupid confusion she had ever seen on his handsome, oblivious face. As if he, the man who had not given her a single moment of personal space in weeks, couldn't fathom why she might be a tiny bit homicidal. He tilted his head, brow furrowed like a particularly dim golden retriever, and opened his mouth like he might actually try to justify himself.
Her voice sliced through the thickening air with the precision of a spell cast in fury. "Answer wisely, Theodore," she hissed, her fingers curling into fists, her eyes aflame with the righteous fury of every pregnant woman who had ever been coddled within an inch of her life, "because I am one spell away from making you experience a level of discomfort that will make you weep for the Cruciatus Curse."
And Theo? Theo, in all his jaw-droppingly idiotic glory, had the audacity—the gall, the death wish—to smirk. He smirked. Her husband, the man she had chosen to love and marry and build a life with, the man currently tap-dancing barefoot across the minefield of her patience, smirked, like the absolute fool he was. The gods were not simply testing her; they were daring her. Daring her to break every magical law in existence. Daring her to become a cautionary tale.
"You love me too much to hex me, Moonbeam," he murmured, his voice as smug and slow as honey-dripping arrogance, as if he believed—genuinely believed—that his charm might somehow shield him from her wrath. And then, because apparently he had a death wish, he leaned in again, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath her jawline, lingering there with the kind of maddening reverence that might have been romantic under any other circumstance.
There was a beat of silence. Then, in a voice so calm it was nearly serene, she said, "Bobsy, bring me my wand."
A soft yelp echoed from the hallway, followed by the unmistakable sound of tiny feet scrambling away in sheer, abject terror.
Theo bolted. Like a man who had stared directly into the eyes of a banshee and decided he quite liked breathing, thank you very much. He ran because, despite all his foolishness, despite his smirk and his sweet words and his obsession with pressing kisses to her face like it might anchor him to the earth, even he—even he—knew, in that deep, primal place that lives in the bones of all creatures, that he had finally pushed her too far.
Getting ready for bed was nothing short of an ordeal, a nightly battle that Theo had learned to navigate with the caution of a man tiptoeing through a field of cursed runes. He had been reckless once—once—early in the pregnancy, when he still believed he had rights in his own home, when he still thought he could suggest things like let me help you, my love or maybe you should get some rest.
Those foolish, naive days were long behind him. Now, he had evolved, adapted, learned. He knew better than to speak when she sighed dramatically as she struggled to pull one of his shirts over her head, he knew better than to offer assistance when she glared at her own swollen feet as if they had personally betrayed her, and most of all, he knew better than to even breathe too loudly when she huffed and puffed her way under the blankets, muttering curses under her breath about how her life was ruined and how he was solely responsible for it.
So he sat there. Silent. Bouncing his foot like a child begging for sweets, antsy, restless, his knee bobbing up and down with a nervous energy that refused to be contained.
Because unlike Lysander, who only ever wanted sugar, Theo wanted something far sweeter. Something he ached for, burned for, something that he had been denied again and again in favor of back rubs and foot massages and fetching snacks from the kitchen at all hours of the night.
He wanted her.
He wanted to sink into her, to feel her wrapped around him, to taste her on his tongue, to drink her in like she was the only thing keeping him alive. He needed her, and yet here he was, starving, suffering, denied access to the very thing he craved most. It was unfair. It was cruel. And worst of all, she knew it.
She turned her head to look at him, her silver-blue eyes narrowing in pure unfiltered disgust, her entire face twisting as if he were something filthy, something obscene, something that needed to be exterminated immediately.
And oh, fuck, he loved it.
Her fury, her impatience, her sharp, cutting glare—it only made him want her more.
"What do you want?" she snapped, her voice sharp and merciless, cutting through the heavy silence of the room like a blade pressed against his throat.
Theo swallowed thickly, the lump in his throat making it nearly impossible to speak. His body was betraying him, his fingers curling into the sheets, his chest rising and falling too quickly, his mouth parting, but no words coming out.
"Nothing…" he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper, though they both knew it was a lie.
Luna bristled, her eyes flashing dangerously, her lips curling in something that was not quite a smirk, but not quite anger either.
"Tell me."
His pulse skyrocketed.
His hands tightened on the sheets.
His body throbbed with the sheer force of his need.
It all came spilling out like a dam had finally collapsed inside him.
"YOU!" he burst out, his voice hoarse, desperate, shaking. "I WANT YOU! I NEED YOU! I NEED TO TASTE YOU!" His breathing was uneven, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with unfiltered, unrestrained longing. "Please, please, pleaaaaseeeeeeee—"
He was a mess, an absolute disaster of a man, a pathetic little thing, undone by her, wrecked by her, and she just stared at him.
Stared. Blinking. Unmoved. Unimpressed.
And then—
Oh. Oh, she smirked.
A slow, knowing, devastating smirk that sent a fresh wave of heat flooding through his body, a smirk that told him everything, that confirmed what he already knew in the deepest parts of himself.
She adored it. She lived for his suffering. She relished in his obsession. And Merlin help him, he would burn for her.
Luna moved slowly—deliberately—as if she had all the time in the world, as if she wanted him to suffer, as if the way his breath hitched and his fingers twitched at his sides fed something deep inside her. She knew what she was doing to him, she knew the effect she had, and she dragged it out, savoring every second, watching with sharp, calculating amusement as the composure he fought so hard to maintain crumbled at her feet.
He was so easy, wasn't he? So predictable in his desire for her, so pathetically enthralled by the mere idea of touching her, tasting her, devouring her. And he thought he was dangerous. He thought he was the one people feared. But in this room, in this bed, with her—he was nothing but a man reduced to his basest, most primal form, trembling, aching, waiting.
She moved lazily, stretching her limbs like a spoiled cat, her silver-blue eyes flicking over him with the kind of slow, deliberate gaze that made him feel completely exposed, as if she were peeling him apart piece by piece. And then, as if sensing just how much torment he could endure before he snapped, she lifted her hips, the hem of her nightgown dragging painfully slowly up her thighs, teasing the barest glimpse of soft, pale skin beneath before shifting back down again.
His whole body locked up.
He didn't breathe. He couldn't.
It was cruel, the way she played with him, the way she made his own anticipation work against him. The longer she stretched this out, the more he burned, the more he ached, the closer he got to breaking apart entirely.
And then, just as he felt his restraint begin to fray at the edges, just as he thought he might explode from the sheer force of wanting her, she reached out—casually, effortlessly—and touched his face.
Her fingers skimmed over his jawline, feather-light, tracing the stubble there as if she were considering him, as if she were deciding whether or not he was worthy of whatever came next.
And then, with that maddening, devastating voice of hers, she whispered, "The love of my life is begging… begging for me?"
He shuddered.
"Yes," he rasped, barely able to form the word, barely able to think beyond the white-hot need pounding through his veins. It wasn't even a word at this point—it was a surrender, an offering, an admission that he was hers to do with as she pleased.
Her lips curled into something wicked, something pleased, something that told him she had no intention of making this easy for him. "If you beg more," she murmured, her nails dragging so lightly down his throat, pausing right over the spot where his pulse thundered beneath her touch, "you can have it."
He broke.
Completely. Utterly. Shamelessly.
He begged—pleaded, prayed—words spilling from his mouth without thought, without pride, without dignity. He had none of that left anyway. Not when it came to her. Not when she held him like this, dangling him over the edge of something so unbearable, so desperate, that he would have done anything—anything—to make her end his suffering.
And oh, she knew it.
She knew she owned him.
She watched him unravel, watched the way his hands fisted in the sheets, the way his lips parted in wordless desperation, the way his entire body strained toward her like he was on the verge of collapse.
Only then—only when she had wrung every last bit of control from him, when she had left him a shaking, ruined mess, when his voice was nothing more than a whisper of desperate prayers on her skin, when his hands trembled with the force of his restraint, when his eyes, dark and blown wide with hunger, could do nothing but follow the slow, deliberate movement of her legs parting—only then did she finally grant him mercy, finally open herself to him, finally give him the permission that he had been dying for.
And it was like something inside him snapped, like the thin thread of his control frayed and burned in an instant, like he had been holding himself back for too long, teetering on the edge of madness, and now, with her spread before him, her breath coming in soft, hitched gasps, her body pulsing with anticipation—he was free.
But he did not rush. No, he was too obsessed with her for that, too entranced by the way her skin shivered beneath his touch, by the way she was already panting, already falling apart before he had even touched her properly. He needed to take his time, needed to make sure she felt just how much he worshipped her, how much he lived for this, how much he would burn for her.
He started slow, dragging his lips across the smooth expanse of her thigh, teasing, lingering, breathing her in as if he could commit every inch of her to memory, as if the scent of her, the warmth of her, the taste of her skin was something he could never get enough of. And he couldn't. He never could. He never would.
His hands were firm but reverent as they slid up her body, fingers splaying against her waist, his touch leaving trails of fire wherever he moved. He kissed up her stomach, his lips brushing over the soft swell of her belly, the heat of his mouth lingering on her skin as if he was marking her, as if he wanted her to feel him long after he was done.
He dragged his mouth higher, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to her ribs, the curve of her breast, the delicate skin above her heart, all the while listening to her, watching her, drinking in the way her breath hitched, the way her hands flexed against the sheets, the way her entire body responded to him as if it belonged to him completely.
And when he finally, finally took her nipple into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the sensitive bud, sucking just enough to make her whimper—she arched beneath him, her body offering itself to him, her hands flying to his hair, her fingers tugging, pulling, desperate for more, desperate for anything, and he felt it, felt the way she trembled beneath him, the way her thighs clenched, the way her breath turned ragged, and fuck, she was so close already, so on edge, so ready for him, so perfectly ruined beneath the barest of his touches.
"Look at you," he murmured against her skin, dragging his teeth along her flushed breast, flicking his tongue over the hardened peak again just to feel the way she gasped, just to hear that tiny, helpless sound that made his cock ache. "So sensitive, my little angel… haven't even touched you properly, and you're already falling apart."
She let out a breathy moan, her fingers tightening in his hair as if she needed something to hold onto, as if she was losing herself entirely.
He loved it. He lived for it. But it wasn't enough.
Because he knew her body. He knew every inch of her, every spot that made her tremble, every kiss that made her whimper, every touch that sent her over the edge. He knew what she needed, knew how to make her break, knew that she could take so much more, that she wanted so much more.
So he moved lower, dragging his mouth down, pressing heated, open-mouthed kisses over the swell of her belly, over her navel, down, down, down—until he was exactly where he needed to be, until his breath was hot against the slick heat of her, until she was panting, her thighs trembling around him, her body practically begging for what came next.
And then—finally—he put his mouth on her.
And she broke.
She arched, her entire body shattering with pleasure as his tongue moved against her, slow at first, slow and teasing, tracing deliberate, tormenting patterns that made her whimper, that made her hips jerk, that made her thighs clench around his head as if she couldn't decide whether to pull him closer or push him away. But he wasn't letting her go.
Oh, no. He wasn't done. Not even close.
She came with a cry, her hands flying to his hair, her fingers fisting into it as if she was trying to anchor herself, as if she was trying to hold onto something, anything, as the pleasure crashed through her, as her body shook from the force of it, as she drowned in the intensity of what he was doing to her.
He groaned against her, his tongue lapping up every drop of her pleasure, savoring her, drinking her in, and when she finally collapsed back onto the bed, boneless, ruined, wrecked, he grinned against her skin, licking his lips like a starved man, his voice thick and filthy as he rasped, "My little angel… needy little slut… haven't even fucked you yet, and you've already come for me?"
She let out a breathless sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, her body still shaking with aftershocks, her hands weakly gripping at his shoulders, and he laughed—low and dark and full of promise—as he moved up her body, pressing his slick, heated mouth to her jaw, to her lips, making her taste herself as he whispered, "Should I stop?"
She turned her face away, still trying to catch her breath, still trying to compose herself, but he wouldn't let her. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him, forcing her to see the hunger in his eyes, the way he was barely holding on to whatever was left of his restraint.
"Why would I?" he murmured, smirking as he trailed his fingers between her still twitching thighs, rubbing slow, teasing circles against her overstimulated clit, watching the way her body shuddered, the way her breath hitched, the way her legs tried to squeeze shut around him but failed. "You think it's embarrassing?"
She let out a soft, wrecked sound, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"Wait," he whispered, pressing a teasing kiss to the corner of her mouth, "until I fuck you."
She whimpered.
He grinned.
"Wait," he growled against her lips, pushing her thighs apart again, sliding himself right against her slick, sensitive heat, making them both groan, "until you come on my cock."
Her breath caught.
His grip on her thighs tightened.
And then, with a wicked, filthy smirk, he murmured, "Now that… that would be embarrassing."
~~~~~~
Turns out, all it took to finally send her body hurtling into full-blown labor wasn't the teas Theo had so religiously steeped for her each morning and night, nor the soft walks he had coaxed her into taking through the rose-drenched gardens of Nott Manor, her hand resting heavy in his as she waddled beside him with murder in her eyes every time he suggested just one more lap to "encourage things along." It wasn't the endless massages he had given her either, those hours he spent on his knees like a penitent worshipper, pressing reverent fingers into her aching back, rubbing circles into the soles of her swollen feet while whispering about how strong she was, how radiant, how she made pregnancy look like a divine act sculpted by the gods themselves. No—none of that worked.
What finally did it? What shattered the dam, what flipped the switch, what unlocked the final stage of this nine-month odyssey with all the elegance of a well-aimed spell exploding against ancient stone? Multiple, mind-warping, soul-leaving-the-body orgasms delivered by a cock that was, objectively speaking, too much. Theo's cock, Theo's mouth, Theo's maddening voice murmuring filth and worship into her skin as he ruined her with every stroke. That's what it took. Not walking. Not tea. Not the tender coaxing of a devoted husband, but sex that absolutely dismantled her from the inside out—sex that made her forget she had a spine, made her sob into the mattress, made her forget her own name except for the way he kept dragging it out of her in between bites to her collarbone.
It had been glorious. Violent in its reverence. And she had fallen asleep to the feeling of his chest pressed to her back, the clean scent of him in her lungs, her limbs boneless and ruined, her belly heavy but somehow more at ease than it had been in weeks. Theo had changed the sheets afterward with those quietly efficient domestic spells he always pretended he didn't know, muttering about softness and scent wards as he tucked her into bed like something precious, like something sacred. And he had curled around her, spooned against her like a second skin, whispering sleepy declarations into her hair that made her melt even more than the sex had.
So when she woke, hours later, blinking against the silver blur of early dawn leaking through the windows, it took her a moment to register the way her body felt wrong. Her skin was clammy. Her thighs slick. And the bed—oh, the bed. The sheets were soaked through beneath her, warm and wet and absolutely not from the night before.
Her first thought was that she'd simply lost control of her bladder. She'd heard it happened, that at this point in pregnancy you could sneeze and lose all dignity, and she blinked blearily in embarrassment. But no. No, this felt different. This wasn't some gentle trickle of shame. This was everywhere. Soaked to the core. A saturation of reality she couldn't explain away.
And then it hit her.
The sudden, bone-deep stillness that overtook her. The sharp inhale that cracked through her ribs like glass underfoot. Her entire body went rigid as her brain caught up to what had just occurred. Her heart surged violently against her ribs.
"Oh, fuck."
Her hands flew to her belly, and in one shaky gasp of alarm, she screamed, "Theo!"
It wasn't a question. It wasn't even a request. It was an invocation.
The door didn't open so much as explode.
Theo burst through it, gun already drawn—gun, not wand, because this man was still half-stuck in his assassin instincts—and he looked like an avenging god, shirtless, bare-chested, barefoot, wild-eyed and feral, his entire body crackling with adrenaline as his gaze sliced through the room, ready to tear apart whatever had dared to make her scream like that.
"What happened?" he barked, chest heaving, scanning for enemies.
"There's no one here!" Luna snapped, her voice pitching into hysterical as she grabbed the soaked sheets and thrust them toward him. "My water broke! Look at the bed!" The change was immediate.
The gun dropped to the floor with a dull thud. The predator vanished. The ruthless killer melted into ash, and all that remained was a panicked, disbelieving husband standing in damp pajama pants and staring at the puddle beneath his wife like it was a portal to hell.
"Oh fuck—fuck—okay, okay—love—just—fuck." He bolted forward, hands outstretched like he was afraid to touch her but unable not to. "Are you in pain? Are you contracting? Are you—do you feel the baby moving? Fuck—"
Luna narrowed her eyes and grabbed his wrist mid-rant, yanking him toward her with surprising strength for a woman in labor. "Theodore," she ground out, "stop panicking and do something useful."
He blinked.
Then nodded, snapped into action like someone had flicked a switch, and turned toward the master bathroom where Luna had insisted she wanted to deliver again—at home, surrounded by water and magic and peace, not the sterile halls of St. Mungo's. And he had honored that. He had built her a sanctuary.
And now?
Now, the sanctuary was going to war.
He stormed down the hall yelling for Bobsy to alert the mediwitch, while Luna struggled to rise from the soaked bed, cursing every deity in existence and every stretch mark she'd earned along the way.
It has begun.
And she was going to kill him.
After the baby.
"Shit— okay, okay, I got you," he muttered, already reaching for her. Before she could protest, before she could even think, he scooped her up, lifting her effortlessly into his arms like she weighed nothing at all, his grip firm, unshakable. And then—before she could even blink—they were gone, the world blurring around them as he Apparated them straight into the master bathroom.
Luna gasped as the sudden shift made her stomach lurch, her arms instinctively clinging to him as they landed in the massive, dimly lit bathroom. Everything was ready—just like she had wanted. Just like she had planned.
Because despite all of Theo's insistence that she should deliver at a private hospital where she would have the best possible care, despite his relentless worrying, despite his paranoia—she had been adamant about having this child at home. Just like she had with Lysander.
And Theo, as much as he had fought her on it, had still made sure everything was prepared. The massive birthing tub was already filled, warm water steaming lightly, candles flickering along the edges of the room, casting a soft, golden glow over the space. Towels were stacked neatly beside the tub, healing potions, cooling cloths, everything set up precisely the way she had wanted it.
Theo wasted no time—his movements were fast, efficient, even as his heart threatened to beat out of his chest. He placed her down gently on the padded bench beside the tub, hands moving over her quickly, checking her, making sure she was okay, making sure she wasn't in pain. "Breathe, baby," he murmured, brushing her damp hair from her face, his touch achingly tender despite the sheer panic in his eyes. "You're okay. You're safe. I got you."
She glared at him, her hands digging into his arms. "Theo, I swear to Merlin, if you don't stop hovering like a panicked first-year, I will cut your dick off," she snapped, her breathing still uneven, the first wave of pain starting to creep in.
Theo ignored the threat completely, his attention already shifting. He waved a hand, sending out a nonverbal summons to Bobsy and the rest of the elves, who would immediately start making themselves useful. And then—because as much as Luna had insisted on it being just them in this room, he was still not an idiot—he sent out the silent alert for the mediwitch, who was already waiting just outside the door in case she was needed.
Because fuck no, Theo was not about to risk anything going wrong. Not when it came to her, not when it came to their child, not when it came to the one thing in this entire godforsaken world that mattered more to him than anything else. He had spent years orchestrating every detail of their lives to ensure her safety, to make sure she never so much as brushed against the kind of danger that followed him like a goddamn shadow, but here she was, in the final stages of bringing their second child into the world, and he was fucking useless.
Absolutely, completely, fucking useless.
He had fought wars, had taken lives, had stared death in the face without so much as flinching, but nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the absolute terror of watching his Luna, his love, his entire fucking world, in the grips of pain that he couldn't take away, couldn't fight for her, couldn't fix—not with a wand, not with a gun, not with a single damn thing that he knew how to do.
And as if that wasn't enough, as if the chaos wasn't already reaching critical levels, he had to deal with fucking Parkinson, who had apparently decided that if Luna was in labor, then so was she.
Because, of course, if Luna was about to bring a child into this world, then Pansy Parkinson simply had to make the moment about herself, despite the very inconvenient fact that she wasn't pregnant and therefore physically incapable of actually going into labor.
But that minor detail didn't seem to stop her from storming into the birthing room like some kind of deranged queen declaring war on the entire concept of men, medicine, and logical thinking, because apparently, if Luna was pushing, then so was she.
Theo had barely been able to register her arrival before she was at Luna's side, hurling absolute filth at him every time he so much as breathed in a way that displeased her, alternating between aggressively coaching Luna through her contractions and hissing death threats at him with a venom that suggested she was seconds away from slitting his throat if he so much as looked at her the wrong way. He had never been so violently aware of the fact that Pansy had been born to be a menace.
At first, he had been too focused on Luna to even acknowledge Pansy's presence beyond mild irritation, too consumed by the sight of his wife, sweat-drenched and gasping through another contraction, too wrecked by the raw pain on her face to process much else. But then—then—Pansy had gone too far.
She had shouted at him, actually shouted, with a level of authority that suggested she had somehow forgotten who the fuck he was, telling him to stop hovering like an incompetent wanker and to for the love of Merlin, put that fucking gun down before you accidentally shoot someone.
And that was where he drew the fucking line.
Because one, he was not hovering, he was protecting, and two, the gun was necessary, because fuck no was he going to let his guard down for even a second with Luna in such a vulnerable state. He didn't give a shit that they were in their own goddamn home, that the room had been secured. He knew better. He always knew better.
But no, Pansy—the bane of his existence, the thorn in his goddamn side, the woman who made it her life's mission to be as inconvenient as humanly possible—had dared to bark at him like he was some disobedient schoolboy, had dared to roll her eyes and gesture wildly at his weapon like it was some kind of offensive accessory rather than a fucking necessity.
And maybe—maybe—Theo had snapped a little.
Maybe he had given her a look so dark, so pointedly lethal, that anyone else would have immediately shut the fuck up and reconsidered all their life choices. But not Pansy. No, never Pansy.
Instead of backing down, she had squared her fucking shoulders, lifted her chin, and doubled down, unleashing a rapid-fire monologue of absolute vitriol, calling him every single creative insult she had at her disposal, from "trigger-happy tosser" to "emotionally constipated psychopath" to "gun-toting motherfucker with a god complex"—which, honestly, was a bit much, even for her.
Theo, who had just spent the last nine months in a constant state of absolute, unrelenting anxiety, who had just witnessed his wife's water break all over their fucking bed, who had not slept properly since the moment Luna had told him she was pregnant again, who was already losing his goddamn mind with worry, had reached his limit.
So he had put the gun down.
Not because Pansy had ordered him to—fuck that—but because Luna, his Luna, had reached out, grabbed his wrist with a strength that should have been impossible given the state she was in, and yanked him toward her, looking him dead in the eye and saying, in a voice so sharp it actually sent a shiver down his spine, "Theodore, if you do not put that bloody thing down and get your useless arse over here, I will personally see to it that you never get to put another baby in me again."
And that was how Theo found himself standing there, unarmed, silently fuming, while Pansy smirked like she had just won a goddamn war, her sharp brown eyes daring him to argue.
But Theo didn't argue.
Because Luna was gripping his hand so fucking tightly that his bones were starting to creak, because she was in pain, because she was the only person in existence who could get him to do anything just by looking at him a certain way.
So, instead, he stood there, seething, glaring absolute murder at Parkinson while she acted like the goddess of birth, as if she was the one having the fucking baby, as if she was the center of the universe, as if she wasn't already planning a goddamn hostile takeover of this entire birthing experience.
Theo hated her.
Luna, on the other hand, just gritted her teeth through another contraction, shooting Pansy an exhausted, but appreciative look, and Theo realized with absolutely crushing certainty that this was going to be the longest fucking day of his entire life.
°°°°°°
Neville needed to come and get Pansy, because by the end of it, even Luna—who had the patience of a saint, who could tolerate Theo at his worst, who could calmly converse with literal murderers and make them feel like they'd been blessed by the stars—had reached her limit. And when Luna lost her temper, it was a spectacle that not even the bravest of men dared to challenge.
It had started with little sighs of irritation, then escalated into pointed glares, then gritted teeth, and then, in the final moment, when Pansy had leaned just a bit too close, offering yet another unwanted piece of dramatic encouragement, Luna had snapped, her voice slicing through the air like a whip: "For the love of God, Pansy, get out before I kill you."
And that was when everyone realized that it was over for Parkinson.
Neville had been summoned instantly—whether by the will of the universe or a desperate plea from the house-elves who were equally done with the chaos, no one knew. But one second, Pansy was in the birthing room, practically huffing with self-importance, and the next, Neville had appeared out of nowhere, exuding the calm but exhausted energy of a man who had spent years dealing with this exact kind of behavior and was, frankly, just a little bit dead inside because of it.
He didn't even say a word at first. Just grabbed Pansy by the elbow in a way that was both firm and deeply resigned, and began dragging her from the room as if he were escorting an overly enthusiastic drunk woman out of a bar before she could throw a punch at the bouncer.
"I wasn't finished," Pansy huffed, her heels clicking aggressively against the tiled floors as Neville escorted her—read: forcefully removed her—through the Nott Manor corridors. "Luna needs me, Longbottom. I was helping."
"Helping," Neville repeated flatly, his voice as dry as a desert, his grip tightening just slightly as she squirmed against him, clearly indignant. "Pansy, you're five seconds away from getting thrown out of here. By Luna."
"She wouldn't dare," Pansy scoffed, lifting her chin as if she had not, in fact, just been on the receiving end of Luna Lovegood's fury. "I'm her best friend. She loves me."
"Oh, does she?" Neville said, arching a deeply unimpressed brow. "Because I specifically recall her threatening your life about thirty seconds ago."
Pansy huffed dramatically, yanking her arm out of his grip as they reached the living room. "You're being ridiculous. Luna just needed to vent. She appreciates my presence."
"Luna appreciates your presence when you're not acting like you're the one pushing out a child," Neville deadpanned, guiding her toward the very plush, very luxurious armchair in the center of the room. "Now, sit. Wait patiently like a good girl."
Pansy gasped, her mouth dropping open in pure outrage as she whipped around to face him, her hands on her hips, her dark eyes narrowing with indignant fury. "Did you just command me like I'm some common peasant?"
Neville sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, clearly already regretting every decision that had led him to this moment. "No, Pansy, I didn't command you. I asked you—politely—to sit down and behave before Luna personally ensures that your future child is raised without a mother."
Pansy's jaw dropped even further, her entire body bristling, but Neville just stared at her, his expression blank, his patience very nearly nonexistent. They stood there in complete silence, locked in an intense staring contest, a battle of wills that would likely end with one of them murdered if left unchecked.
Finally—finally—Pansy scoffed, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder in a grand display of false nonchalance. "Fine," she snapped, flouncing dramatically toward the armchair as if she were the one allowing herself to be removed from the situation, rather than being forcefully expelled by an entire room of people who could no longer tolerate her existence.
Neville watched as she dropped onto the chair, crossing her legs with the kind of haughty defiance that suggested she was seconds away from filing a formal complaint against every person involved in this grave injustice.
"Good," Neville said, voice clipped, his shoulders relaxing slightly now that she was finally out of the birthing room.
Pansy lifted her chin. "I will be having words with Luna when this is over," she informed him primly, her expression one of great importance.
"I'm sure you will," Neville replied, not even attempting to hide the sheer apathy in his voice.
Pansy narrowed her eyes at him. "And you will be apologizing for that tone."
Neville snorted, rubbing at his temples, before looking at her with the kind of expression a man wears when he has long since stopped fighting battles he knows he cannot win. "Sure, Bloom, immediately."
Pansy gasped, scandalized, clutching her imaginary pearls as she glared at him, her entire body vibrating with rage.
But Neville? Neville just turned and walked away.
Because fuck that.
~~~~~~
Theo had spent his entire life convinced—utterly, stubbornly, foolishly convinced—that there could be no greater expansion of his heart than what he had already experienced. He had thought it had reached its limits, thought it had been pushed and stretched to the very brink of its capacity, first by Luna, with her silver-light laughter and maddening grace, who had cracked him open like moonlight through armor and made a home in every ruined corner of his soul, and then again by Lysander, their wild, beautiful boy, whose arrival had turned Theo into a man who cried at lullabies and learned how to braid hair just because it made his son smile. That kind of love, that magnitude of devotion, had felt like everything—like the final evolution of who he was, like there simply couldn't be anything more.
But then, in the stillness of that golden-lit room, with his heart already thrumming from the terror and exhilaration of the last few hours, the mediwitch placed a tiny, impossibly perfect bundle into his trembling hands—and in that instant, everything shattered. His breath hitched as if the air had been stolen from his lungs, his arms curled instinctively around the fragile weight of her, and his entire world tilted on its axis.
Because this wasn't just a baby. This wasn't just his daughter. This was Seline Nott . And Seline Nott, wrapped in the softest pink blanket and blinking up at him with wide, stormy blue eyes so much like Luna's it physically hurt to look at her, was not simply an addition to his life—she was a piece of it he hadn't even known was missing. She was something ancient and holy and utterly, terrifyingly precious. She was the part of him that still believed in innocence. In hope. In magic.
And Theo—Theodore fucking Nott, who had killed for less than a sideways glance, who had buried his heart beneath walls and blood and fire—crumpled.
He didn't just cry. He wept.
Silently at first, then with shuddering, hiccuping breaths, tears spilling down his cheeks in hot, endless rivers, his chest heaving as if it couldn't contain the sheer, overwhelming emotion tearing through him. He was unmade, undone, wrecked. Because for all his darkness, for all his sins, for all the years spent convincing himself that he didn't deserve something as pure as this—here she was.
Tiny. Real. Alive. His.
His little moonbeam, his universe in miniature, his girl.
And in that moment, Theo knew with complete, devastating certainty that he would burn the entire world to ash for her. That there was no line he wouldn't cross, no vow he wouldn't break, no god he wouldn't defy. That he would slit the throat of fate itself if it ever dared threaten her happiness.
He leaned down slowly, reverently, pressing a kiss to the soft crown of her downy head, and whispered against her skin like a prayer only she would ever hear: "You own me now, little love."
And she did. Completely. Irrevocably. Forever.
A daughter. His daughter. Their daughter. The words echoed in his mind like the final line of a sacred incantation, one he hadn't dared to dream aloud in all its raw, terrifying beauty until now. A daughter. It wasn't just a label or a fact—it was an unraveling of everything he thought he knew about love, about fear, about the softest parts of his soul that he'd spent a lifetime burying beneath layers of steel and strategy and silence. His chest ached with it, with the weight of this impossible, perfect thing now resting in his arms, and for a man who had stared death in the face and walked away unflinching, who had once believed himself immune to weakness, this—this brought him to his knees in every way but the physical, and even that felt like a miracle of willpower alone. Because the only thing keeping him upright, the only tether holding him together, was the fragile weight of her. Their daughter. His Seline.
He couldn't move. Could barely breathe. Could barely do anything at all but stare down at the silken puff of pale-gold hair and impossibly delicate lashes brushing flushed cheeks, at the soft rise and fall of her breath, the tiniest human sound he'd ever heard, like the universe exhaling for the very first time. And then he looked to the side, and there she was—Luna. Still submerged in the warm water of the birthing tub, her body shaking with the residual tremors of labor, her limbs heavy with exhaustion, her expression pale and drawn—but her eyes, Merlin, her eyes. Her face was lit with something so fierce, so soft and luminous, that it eclipsed even the candlelight dancing on the water. She looked wrecked. And she looked divine.
Her fingers twitched, trembling as they reached outward, a silent plea that didn't need to be voiced. And Theo, dazed, undone, barely more than a breath held together by sheer instinct, moved without thought, without hesitation. He dropped to his knees beside the tub as reverently as a man approaching an altar and carefully, so carefully, placed their daughter onto Luna's chest, supporting Seline's head with both hands like she was made of the finest glass. He adjusted her until she was settled skin-to-skin, until the warmth of her tiny body nestled against the heartbeat that had carried her for so long. Until mother and daughter were one again.
He didn't know who he was more in awe of—the child they had created, so impossibly new and small and alive—or the woman who had brought her here, who had endured the agony of labor, the terror, the blood, the vulnerability of it all, and still managed to look like something ethereal as she welcomed this newest piece of their love into her arms.
"Look at that, my love," he whispered, his voice wrecked, barely holding together, thick with everything he couldn't say, everything he didn't know how to say. His thumb brushed along Seline's impossibly soft jaw, his hand a fortress around the back of her head as she instinctively rooted closer, curling herself against Luna's heartbeat. "We made a girl. A baby girl."
And Luna—Luna, who had hours ago threatened to hex him if he so much as breathed too loudly during her contraction, who had screamed and wept and bitten down on his hand with the kind of fury that only a woman in labor could possess—looked down at her daughter and melted. Her mouth parted in a soft gasp, her breath catching in her throat as her lashes fluttered against sweat-dampened cheeks. Her arms curved around the baby, trembling but certain, and she stared as though she was witnessing the birth of the stars themselves. "She's gorgeous," she whispered, and there was something so raw in her voice that it sliced Theo open all over again. "Thank you, my Sun. Thank you for this. Thank you so much for this gift of a lifetime."
And that was it.
That was the moment Theo shattered.
Because if he had thought he was lost before, if he had believed—naively, foolishly—that Luna had already claimed every last part of his soul, if he had thought that his love had reached its pinnacle when Lysander was born, then he had never understood what it meant to be destroyed by love. Not like this. Not here. Not now, with his wife pale and beautiful in the golden haze, with his daughter pressed against her like a tiny miracle, her fingers flexing against Luna's skin, claiming her like she knew exactly who she belonged to.
And he belonged to them. Entirely. Every breath, every heartbeat, every inch of him was theirs. Forever.
He pressed his forehead to Luna's temple, breathing her in like she was air after drowning, his tears falling silently, freely, soaking into her hair. And in that quiet, holy moment, in the space where love eclipsed everything else, Theo knew with perfect, devastating clarity—this was his whole world. And it was perfect.
~~~~~~
As the evening quietly unraveled into the slow hush of night, into that fragile, liminal space between exhaustion and peace, Theo moved through the bedroom with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred rituals, his every step silent and precise, his breath held in a soft, uneven cadence that betrayed the fragility of his emotions. He didn't walk—he floated, glided, as if any sudden movement might shatter the impossible stillness that had settled over the room like a silk veil. And when he lifted Luna into his arms, his fingers curled around her like she was made not of bone and blood but of spun glass and starlight, as if even gravity dared not touch her without his permission. She was weightless in his arms, yet she carried the gravity of everything—the center of his universe, the sun around which his life orbited. And as he laid her down onto their bed, inch by inch, his hands trembling with something deeper than fear, something more consuming than awe, he was barely breathing, barely surviving the way she looked at him through the haze of exhaustion, like she still trusted him with everything she had left, like he was the one place she could fall.
The blankets were pulled over her with agonizing care, each motion deliberate, as if the act of tucking her in was some final incantation to seal this moment, to protect her not just from the chill in the room but from the weight of all she had endured. He had witnessed her shatter and rebuild herself within the span of hours—had watched her body open in agony and close in triumph, had whispered her name like a prayer through gritted teeth while she roared through pain no mortal should be asked to survive, had held her hand so tightly he wasn't sure where his fingers ended and hers began—and yet now, lying there in the aftermath, in the echo of creation, she looked like divinity itself. The soft spill of moonlight poured through the sheer curtains like liquid silver, casting a glow across her sweat-kissed brow, the fine tremble of her lips, the still-flushed curve of her cheekbones, and he couldn't help but stare, because how could someone survive what she just survived and still look like she had been carved by some celestial being?
He had believed, with all the stubborn certainty of a man obsessed, that he had already reached the apex of what he could feel for her. That his heart—so impossibly full with every moment of their history, every soft laugh, every fight, every kiss that tasted like need—could not possibly stretch further. That there were limits to what even love could contain. But he had been wrong. So fucking wrong. Because watching her birth their daughter, watching her fall apart and rise again with Seline cradled against her chest, had unmade him. And whatever boundaries had once defined the shape of his devotion, whatever finite edges had given his obsession some kind of order—were gone now. His love for her was a freefall, a spiraling abyss that went on forever, a madness he would never recover from and never wanted to.
He slid beneath the covers with the care of a man stepping onto holy ground, mindful of the way her breath hitched in her sleep, mindful of the small sounds she made even in rest, sounds that told him her body was still catching up to the storm it had weathered. He didn't dare speak, didn't dare move too quickly, not because he feared waking her, but because he needed this to be slow, needed this to be deliberate. When his arms finally wrapped around her, when he drew her body gently against his, it felt different from every night before. Not just comfort. Not just habit. But a claiming. A reconnection to the lifeline that tethered him to everything good, everything real. She was the beating heart of his world, and now, as her body softened into his embrace, as her head found the curve of his shoulder like it was meant to be there for eternity, as her breath ghosted against his throat in a rhythm that made his heart ache, he felt it again—that crushing, overwhelming sense that he had never, not even once, deserved her.
His fingers moved slowly, reverently, across her back, drawing patterns that meant nothing and everything, not for her but for him—because it grounded him, because it reminded him that she was here, alive, safe, real. His hand followed the curve of her spine, the familiar slope of her shoulder blade, committing every detail to memory again even though he could trace her with his eyes closed, even though he had never once forgotten a single inch of her. And still, he was terrified. Because loving her this much was unbearable. Because losing her, even the thought of it, would break him so thoroughly he doubted he'd remember how to breathe.
His voice was no longer a voice—it was the breath of a man stripped down to the bones of his soul, a whisper trembling through the air like a secret carved into the stars. "Between seas, galaxies, and moons… I truly was lucky," he murmured, not to be heard, but to be felt, as if speaking the truth aloud would somehow weave it into the threads of the universe itself. His lips brushed the curve of her temple like a benediction, and he breathed her in—not just her scent, but her essence, the wild lunar softness of her spirit, the quiet chaos that had undone him from the moment she entered his orbit. "I stepped on the same land as you, walked beneath the same sky, dreamed beneath the same stars—and that alone was a miracle I never dared to ask for."
His voice fractured, splintered beneath the weight of what she meant to him, and yet he continued, pressing the words against her skin like a vow. "And if this world ever dares to crush you beneath its weight, if your spirit falters, if your heart begins to splinter under burdens no soul was meant to carry, if your eyes become oceans and you fear you'll drown in the grief of it all—I will be your sand, your anchor, the steady shore upon which your tears will break and vanish. I will be the lighthouse when the skies blacken, when your path disappears beneath storms, when the stars forget your name. I will be the arms that catch you, even when you fall in silence, even when you forget how to call for help. I will be the place you return to, over and over and over again—no matter how far the tide pulls you from me."
He clutched her then, not out of fear, but out of a ferocious, sacred need, pulling her into him as if his body could become a shield between her and all the cruelty of the world, as if his flesh and blood alone could defy fate itself. He tightened around her like armor forged from love, from obsession, from the raw, brutal devotion that lived in his chest and had never known moderation. Luna, his moonbeam, his mad girl, his miracle—she was still a creature of stars and wind and strange, sacred light, but she was also his, somehow his, tethered to earth by the red string of something older than destiny.
And if the gods had dared to grant him this—if they had truly entrusted him with her—then he would guard that gift with everything he had, with every brutal instinct, every whispered prayer, every ounce of wrath and reverence in his being. He would let kingdoms fall before letting her slip from his grasp. He would burn down the heavens if it meant keeping her safe.
She stirred in his arms like the tide itself, delicate and infinite, her breath soft as dusk against his throat, her bones molded to his in the silence of a world that had finally, mercifully, gone still. He felt the rise and fall of her chest, the gentle press of her palm against his ribs, her fingers curled as if she were holding on to more than just skin—like she was holding on to him. And within that quiet, Theo felt it again: the rhythm of her, the storm and the sanctuary, the unraveling and the mending.
She was the question he had never dared to ask, and the answer he would spend his whole life worshipping.
She exhaled softly, her breath a warm tremble against the bare plane of his collarbone, and though her body ached in ways too layered to describe, though her bones felt hollowed by the weight of creation, her skin still thrumming with the memory of pain and power and breathless effort, she found no room for sleep—not yet. Not when her heart was still unraveling beneath the sound of his voice, not when his words hung like constellations between them, fragile and glimmering, a map to a place only the two of them could find. He had spoken not as a man but as something more—stripped down to raw soul and trembling hope, his heart laid bare before her like an offering at the altar of their love. And she, who had spent her life seeing the truths others missed, had heard what lay beneath it. The poetry of it. The ache. The surrender. He had handed her the world, not realizing he had always been hers to begin with.
Slowly, purposefully, she lifted her head from his chest, just enough to meet the storm he barely contained behind his eyes. Her fingers, soft despite the ache in her joints, lifted to trace the sharp angles of his jaw, her touch light, reverent, like she was painting a spell across his skin. "My sun," she breathed, her voice hoarse, frayed at the edges from exhaustion and tears and the kind of unspeakable awe that only comes after witnessing the beginning of something divine. "You speak like the stars bent just for us, like the heavens arranged this meeting with mercy in mind. As if fate reached down with trembling hands and dared to thread our names together across time."
Her hand moved slowly to his lips, brushing the edge of his mouth with the back of her knuckles, feeling the way it curved into the faintest smile beneath her fingertips. "But I do not believe in fate," she whispered, "nor in chance. I believe in choice. In every moment we've chosen each other, across lifetimes, across the blood and war and ruin of everything that came before. I believe in that. I believe in us." Her voice dropped even lower, carrying the weight of a promise deeper than vows. "And if the road burns, if I must walk through fire barefoot and blind, I will do so gladly, because I know your hands will be waiting on the other side to catch me. If the sea tries to claim me, to drag me beneath its crushing silence, I will not be afraid, because I know you would follow me into the abyss and tear open the ocean with your bare hands just to find me again."
She pressed herself tighter to him, curling into him like the moon curling into the sky, like her very body was trying to fold into his, to fuse, to disappear in the safety of the man who had become her shelter in every storm. "And if the sky shatters, if the stars fall like ash and the constellations we once dreamed under crumble to dust, I know I will find you in the wreckage. Because no fire, no flood, no wrath of gods or time or death could ever keep me from you. I will crawl through the ruins. I will bleed through the dark. I will whisper your name into the void until the void whispers it back."
Her eyes closed briefly, lashes fluttering against his skin, and she inhaled him—his scent, his warmth, the fierce rhythm of his pulse—and when she spoke again, it was so quiet that it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But not him. Never him. "You say you're lucky, my love, to have walked beside me, but you don't see what I see. You are the ground beneath me, the breath in my lungs, the gravity that keeps me tethered to this world. You are my stars, Theo. My light, my path, my everything. You are not beside me. You are within me. And no matter what storms rise, I will choose you. In this life and every one that follows."
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, her grip tight like an anchor thrown into the sea, like she needed something to hold onto or she might disappear. "You say you'll be the sand that dries my tears," she murmured, her lips brushing the hollow of his throat, "then I will be the tide that always returns to you, no matter how far I drift, no matter how lost I become. I will find you. I will find you, even in the dark."
When she pulled back, it was only to look at him, to truly see him, to meet his gaze with the weight of a love so deep it felt carved from the bones of the earth. Her silver-blue eyes shimmered with unshed tears, with wonder, with a vow she didn't have to speak, because it had been written in every glance, every touch, every breath they'd ever shared. "And if the world turns its back on you," she whispered, "I will not. If you fall to your knees, I will kneel beside you. If you break, I will hold your pieces until they fit again. I will carry you, Theodore Nott, the way you've carried me."
Her lips met his in a kiss that was less about passion and more about eternity, slow and soft and infinite, a communion of two souls that had always belonged to each other. And when she finally let herself collapse against him, her body pressed tightly to his, her breath evening out at last, she did so with a certainty that nothing—not death, not time, not fate—could ever unmake what they were. Not after this. Not ever.