Prompt: Sequel to Done With You. In a marriage built on cold necessity and buried wounds, Noelle and Asta navigate the fragile balance of duty, resentment, and unspoken hope—until time, circumstance, and two unexpected lives force them to confront what they've both been running from
—
Noelle woke with a lurch.
A sharp wave of nausea twisted through her gut, violent and unrelenting, forcing her upright. Her body moved on instinct, barely giving her time to stumble from the bed before she was on her knees in the privy chamber, heaving into the basin. The world spun. Sweat beaded along her forehead, dripping down her nose as she clutched the edges of the stone sink, her breath coming in ragged pants.
No. No, no, no.
She already knew.
Her hands trembled as she wiped her mouth. A sickening familiarity settled into her bones, one she had experienced three times before. The exhaustion, the nausea, the tightness in her chest—it all aligned in an undeniable conclusion.
She was pregnant.
Again.
They had done it once before—before Lucius supposedly killed Asta. Now, it seemed her past with that deplorable man—the one she had once loved more than anything—had caught up to her yet again.
A harsh, bitter laugh bubbled up, but it died in her throat, replaced by the dull roar of blood pounding in her ears.
This was the fourth time. The first had been a mistake. The second, an accident. The third, a moment of weakness. Each time, she had quietly ended it before anyone could notice. She had convinced herself it was for the best—because she had never been ready, because she refused to tie Asta down, because he never stayed.
But this time…
Noelle curled her fingers into fists, nails biting into her palms. I won't let anyone take this baby from me.
This time, she didn't care what Asta wanted.
This child was hers.
—
It didn't take long for the news to spread.
The rumors had begun the moment she started eating less, the moment she turned green at the scent of meat, the moment she was spotted leaving a healer's clinic with a prescription of tonics. Whispers turned into murmurs, murmurs into gasps, gasps into scandalous gossip.
By the time she stepped into the grand hall of House Silva, the nobles were already murmuring about her. When the official announcement came, the shockwave rippled through the capital like wildfire.
"Who is the father?" Nozel demanded.
Noelle had expected the question. She had prepared for it. But by the time the nobles began prying, she had already confronted Asta.
—
He was exactly where she expected him to be—on the training field behind the Black Bulls' base, sweat-drenched and breathless, swinging his katana at an imaginary opponent. His shirt lay discarded in the grass, revealing the scars that criss crossed his back and chest, stark against the tanned skin of his torso.
Noelle felt nothing when she saw him.
The part of her that once ached at the sight of him, that once fluttered at his smile, that once yearned for his warmth—it had long since withered, shriveled into dust.
Asta noticed her approach. He lowered his sword, his expression shifting into cautious confusion. "Noelle?"
"I'm pregnant."
The words were blunt, devoid of ceremony. She hadn't planned for gentleness, nor had she intended to ease him into the truth. He deserved none of that.
Asta's breath hitched. He blinked, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. "…What?"
"I said I'm pregnant," she repeated, arms crossed, expression cold. "It's yours."
Asta's jaw clenched. His fingers twitched. For a long, stretched moment, he said nothing. He simply stared, eyes flickering with emotions too tangled to name.
Then, finally, he exhaled. "Okay."
Noelle scoffed. "That's it? Okay?"
Asta ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, his shoulders tensing. "What do you want me to say?"
"You don't need to say anything," she snapped. "You just need to listen."
She took a step forward.
"I don't love you," she said, her voice steady, unwavering.
Asta flinched.
"You're a piece of shit, and I don't trust you. But I refuse to let my child grow up without a father." She inhaled sharply, her nails digging into her arms. "So we're getting married."
Asta's eyes widened slightly, but she pushed on before he could interrupt.
"We'll play the part," she continued, her voice like ice. "We'll smile in public, we'll act like the perfect couple, and we'll raise this baby together. And you will be there. Every day, every night. You will never abandon them the way you abandoned me."
Asta's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Noelle, I—"
"You will do this," she cut in, "no matter how much it hurts you."
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, Asta exhaled. His lips curled into a small, sad smile.
"…Okay."
Noelle sneered. "Good."
Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away.
—
The grand hall was suffocating. Nobles, Magic Knights, and foreign dignitaries alike filled the space, buzzing with anticipation. The House Silva crest gleamed on the banners above, the chandeliers casting golden light upon the marble floor.
Noelle stood at the center, her back straight, her expression unreadable. Beside her, Asta stood in formal attire, a stiff smile plastered across his face.
"We are pleased to announce the upcoming marriage of Lady Noelle Silva and Sir Asta of the Black Bulls," the herald proclaimed. "A blessed union, formed in honor of their unborn child."
A polite murmur swept through the hall. Applause followed—a mix of genuine and obligatory—but the atmosphere remained thick with curiosity.
Noelle felt none of it.
She only felt the warmth of Asta's presence beside her. A warmth that made her feel colder than Edward's mana zone.
His hand twitched at his side, as if resisting the urge to reach for hers. His smile, warm and bright to the crowd, was nothing more than a flimsy mask.
She knew the truth.
He was crumbling.
His soul and heart were being torn to shreds as his regrets resurfaced a thousand fold. His own guilt overturning his own foolish, pathetic, lingering hope that maybe—just maybe—this was real.
Only now, in the face of an unchangeable future, did he finally understand the pain she had carried for so long.
And that made everything worse.
—
The performance was flawless.
For weeks after the public announcement, Noelle and Asta maintained their roles with unnerving precision. They walked hand-in-hand through the halls of the royal palace. They dined together in elegant silence, surrounded by watching eyes. They attended galas, luncheons, and ceremonies, the picture of a devoted couple preparing for marriage and parenthood.
Noelle never smiled too much—just enough to appear content. Asta never let his shoulders sag—just enough to appear proud.
To the world, they were the embodiment of a love that had overcome hardship.
But four people saw through the lie.
—
Ryu knew the moment he laid eyes on them.
When Asta and Noelle visited the Land of the Sun, standing before him as an expectant couple with an invitation, the truth was written in the way they moved—the way Noelle held herself stiffly beside Asta, the way Asta's smile never reached his eyes.
But Ryu didn't need body language.
His Tengentsu told him everything.
But he didn't even need that either.
A year's worth of heartbreak, misunderstandings, and buried wounds—laid bare before him like an open book.
He exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his head. "Man… that's rough."
Asta, who had been in the middle of rambling about the wedding plans, faltered. "Huh?"
"Nothing," Ryu said with a lopsided grin. "Y'all just got a lot to work through, don'tcha?"
Noelle's fingers twitched at her side. Asta stiffened, his gaze darting away.
Ryu sighed. "Just take care of the kid, alright?"
Asta nodded. "Of course."
Ryu let it drop. It wasn't his place to meddle.
Still, when they left, he stared after them for a long time.
—
Yami wasn't a fool.
He might not have had fancy eyes like Ryu, but he didn't need them. He knew how to read Ki—and the Ki between Asta and Noelle was all kinds of wrong.
Asta's was raw, vulnerable, bleeding emotion behind a carefully held mask. Noelle's was colder than he'd ever felt it, tense and guarded, her movements edged with restrained anger.
Not love.
Not even hate.
Just… bitterness.
Yami took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a long plume of smoke as he watched Asta pack up his belongings.
"So," Yami said lazily. "You're really doin' this?"
Asta smiled. It was small and tired. "Yeah."
Yami let out a dry chuckle. "Damn, kid. You're a glutton for punishment."
Asta didn't argue.
—
The first time Yuno saw Asta after the announcement, he didn't say anything.
He just looked at him.
A long, piercing stare, eyes unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line.
Asta, fidgeting under the scrutiny, forced a grin. "What's with that face, Yuno?"
Yuno didn't blink. "Why?"
Asta's fingers curled at his sides. "Why what?"
"Why are you pretending?" Yuno's voice was quiet, but it carried a sharp edge. "Why are you letting her treat you like this?"
Asta swallowed. "Because I deserve it."
Yuno's jaw clenched. He exhaled sharply, turning away. "You're an idiot."
Asta chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "Yeah."
Yuno didn't speak again.
But later, when Asta started neglecting his Magic Knight duties, Yuno threw his own robe down and left for the Spade Kingdom.
If Asta wasn't going to fight for himself, Yuno wouldn't fight for that dream either.
Shortly after Fuegoleon Vermillion ascended to the throne as the 29th Wizard King.
—
Nozel wanted to kill him.
The urge was so overwhelming, so visceral, that it took everything in him to keep his hands at his sides when he confronted Asta in the halls of House Silva.
"You're filth," Nozel said coldly.
Asta didn't flinch. He didn't argue. He simply met Nozel's gaze with quiet acceptance.
Nozel hated him for it.
"You broke her." Nozel's voice was a razor's edge. "You shattered her, and now you're standing here, pretending everything is fine?"
"I know," Asta said.
Nozel's fingers twitched toward his grimoire. "If it weren't for my niece or nephew growing inside her, I would end you."
Asta nodded. "I know."
Nozel breathed hard through his nose. Then, with a scoff of disgust, he turned and walked away.
But later, when he saw Noelle holding a hand over her stomach in quiet contemplation, he swallowed his fury.
For her sake, he let Asta live.
—
The ceremony was swift, with little fanfare.
Asta and Noelle exchanged vows before the gathered nobility, rings slipping onto fingers that barely touched. They kissed once—for show, for the audience, for the farce they had constructed.
Their honeymoon was spent in silence.
Within days, they packed their things and left the Black Bulls base, moving to a quiet estate on the edge of the noble realm.
It was done.
They were husband and wife.
Their perfect lie had become reality.
And now, they had the rest of their lives to endure it.
—
The first few weeks were hell.
Morning sickness struck with a vengeance, leaving Noelle nauseous at all hours of the day. She could barely keep food down, her body rejecting even the simplest meals. The healers assured her it was normal, that her body was adjusting, that this was all part of the process.
She hated it.
She hated the way her body felt foreign to her, the way exhaustion dragged at her limbs. She hated the smell of certain foods, the way her stomach twisted at the faintest scent of something too strong. She hated the dizziness, the aches, the endless discomfort.
But most of all—she hated Asta.
He never left her side.
Every time she ran to the bathroom to throw up, he was there, holding back her hair. Every time she woke up sweating in the middle of the night, he was already awake, fetching water. Every time she struggled to sit up, stand, or move, his hands were there, supporting her without hesitation.
He never got angry when she snapped at him.
Never argued when she insulted him.
Never raised his voice when she threw words like daggers, slashing at his patience, his kindness, his unwavering presence.
And that only made her hate him more.
—
One night, when the nausea was at its worst, Asta brought her tea—warm, herbal, soothing. He knelt beside her as she sat in bed, holding the cup out patiently.
Noelle stared at it.
Then, with a sharp movement, she slapped it out of his hand. The cup shattered against the floor, liquid seeping into the carpet.
Asta froze.
She didn't look at him. Her hands clenched into fists over her stomach, nails biting into her skin.
"Stop it," she muttered.
Asta's voice was quiet. "Stop what?"
"Stop acting like this," she snapped, turning on him with wild eyes. "Stop treating me like some delicate little thing you have to take care of. Stop acting like you—" Her breath hitched. "Like you actually care."
Asta was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the floor, hands resting on his knees.
"I do care," he said simply.
Noelle clenched her jaw.
"I know you don't love me," Asta continued, his voice even, steady. "I know you never will. But that doesn't change how I feel. That doesn't change what I want."
She laughed, but it was sharp, bitter. "And what do you want, Asta?"
"To be here," he said. "For you. For the baby. For as long as I can."
Something in her chest twisted.
She wanted to scream at him, to call him a liar, to demand why he was doing this when she had made it clear that there was no love between them.
But she couldn't.
Because she knew, deep down, that Asta wasn't lying.
That was what made it so much worse.
So instead, she turned away, curling into herself, pressing a hand to her stomach.
She didn't fight him anymore after that.
But she didn't speak to him either.
—
Time passed.
Her belly grew, rounding as the months stretched on. The nausea faded, but exhaustion remained, dragging at her with every step. She retired from the Magic Knights officially, focusing solely on the child growing inside her.
Asta took care of everything.
He cleaned. Cooked. Maintained the house. He ran errands, handled the logistics, kept her as comfortable as possible.
And Noelle… stopped trying to push him away.
She stopped the insults.
Stopped the cold, biting words.
She didn't thank him. She didn't smile at him. But she stopped fighting him.
That was enough.
—
It was a long labor.
Painful. Excruciating. Endless.
She screamed. Cried. Gasped for breath as agony tore through her body in waves, leaving her trembling, drenched in sweat.
Asta never left her side.
He held her hand, let her squeeze as hard as she needed, whispered encouragements she barely heard through the haze of pain.
Then—finally—after what felt like a lifetime, a wail filled the room.
Noelle lay panting, her vision blurred, her body weak and spent.
And then—warmth.
A tiny weight placed against her chest.
A baby. Her baby.
Nigel.
She didn't bother to ask for Asta's input for the boy's name. If Asta had a problem with that he didn't mention it.
Noelle stared down at Nigel, his tiny fists curled, his face scrunched as he let out a sharp cry.
Something inside her cracked open.
Not love—she didn't know if she could love again.
But something.
Something raw. Something real.
—
When Noelle woke the next morning, Asta was sitting by the window, holding Nigel in his arms.
He was staring down at the baby, his expression unreadable.
She watched him for a moment.
Then, softly, he spoke.
"I'm officially giving up on being Wizard King."
Noelle stiffened.
Asta didn't look at her. He just smiled—small, tired, resigned.
"I'm staying here," he said. "I'm going to be the best father I can be."
Noelle's lips parted, but no words came out.
She wanted to tell him not to.
That she never asked for this.
That she didn't need him to make such a sacrifice.
But deep down—she knew she had already taken everything from him.
And he had given it willingly.
She closed her eyes.
She said nothing.
Because, in the end, she had nothing left to say.
—
The Picture-Perfect Family.
From the outside, they were the ideal couple.
Noelle Silva, the royal failure-turned-prodigy, now a devoted mother, had retired from combat to raise her son with the man she chose—Asta, the once-aspiring Wizard King, who had set aside his ambitions for the sake of his family.
Together, they lived in a beautiful home on the outskirts of the noble realm, away from prying eyes yet close enough to remain involved in the affairs of the kingdom.
To the public, their love story was the stuff of fairytales.
Asta and Noelle attended royal banquets side by side, fingers interlocked. They walked through the markets together, chatting about baby toys and nursery designs. They sat in the castle gardens, watching Nigel waddle after butterflies, exchanging soft smiles that seemed filled with love.
It was flawless.
Effortless.
A performance so convincing that even those who had once doubted it started to believe.
Only those who saw behind the curtain knew the truth.
—
Inside their home, things were different.
At night, they slept in the same bed—but Noelle lay with her back to him, as far from his touch as possible.
At breakfast, Asta made her tea exactly how she liked it, but she never thanked him.
When Nigel cried at night, Asta was the first to wake, cradling their son while Noelle sat by in silence, watching, waiting, enduring.
She never raised her voice anymore. Never insulted him. Never pushed him away with the same venom she once had.
But she never reached for him either.
Asta was a father to Nigel.
He was a husband on paper.
But he was not her partner.
Not in the way he wished to be.
And it was breaking him.
—
Nigel grew quickly—bright-eyed, curious, sharp for his age.
He was a happy child. His parents made sure of that.
His days were filled with love.
His nights were filled with warmth.
He never knew hunger, never knew fear, never knew what it meant to be alone.
But he noticed things.
He noticed the way his father's smile never reached his eyes.
He noticed the way his mother avoided looking at Asta for too long.
He noticed the tension in the air when they thought he wasn't watching.
Still, whenever he asked, his parents reassured him with soft, patient voices.
"Everything's fine, sweetheart."
"Mama and Papa love each other very much."
"There's nothing to worry about."
And because he was only three—because the world was still new to him, still magical—he believed them.
For now.
—
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Asta found himself standing by the crib, watching Nigel sleep.
The boy's small chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm, his tiny fingers curled around the edge of his blanket.
So peaceful.
So unaware.
Asta clenched his fists at his sides.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be.
They were supposed to be happy.
They were supposed to be real.
He was supposed to be enough.
The thoughts crashed over him in waves, suffocating, unbearable. His throat tightened, his breath turned shallow. He pressed a hand to his chest, willing himself to calm down, to breathe, to keep it together.
Behind him, a voice broke the silence.
"Asta."
Noelle stood at the doorway, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.
He straightened instantly, his usual smile snapping into place. "Hey."
She stared at him.
Then, softly—almost too softly—she said, "You don't have to pretend when it's just us."
Something in him cracked.
For the first time in years, Asta let the mask slip.
Tears burned at the edges of his vision, his breath unsteady. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, shoulders trembling.
Noelle didn't move toward him. Didn't reach out.
She just stood there, watching.
And after a moment, she turned and left.
Leaving him alone in the quiet.
—
The next day, nothing changed.
At breakfast, Asta made her tea exactly how she liked it.
Noelle sipped it without a word.
Later, they took Nigel for a walk through the gardens.
They held hands.
They laughed.
They smiled.
Because that's what perfect families do.
And they were perfect.
At least, that's what the world needed to believe.
—
At four years old, Nigel was sharp—sharper than most children his age.
He had his father's boundless energy, his mother's sharp intuition, and an intelligence that made him seem older than he was.
And lately, he'd been asking too many questions.
"Mama, why don't you smile at Papa like Aunt Mimosa smiles at Uncle Yuno?"
"Papa, why do you always look sad when Mama isn't looking?"
"Why does Uncle Yuno never come inside the house when Papa's home?"
Each time, Asta and Noelle had an answer prepared, their responses carefully rehearsed, spoken in gentle, soothing voices.
"Mama's just tired, sweetheart."
"Papa isn't sad! He's just thinking."
"Uncle Yuno is busy with his work, that's all."
For now, Nigel believed them.
But how much longer would that last?
—
One afternoon, Nozel arrived unannounced.
Noelle had been in the garden, watching Nigel chase fireflies, when she sensed his mana approaching.
She tensed instantly.
It had been a long time since her brother had visited.
She already knew why he was here.
Nozel entered the estate without a word, his silver eyes sharp as he stepped into the sitting room. Asta greeted him with a smile—strained, but polite.
"Captain Nozel," Asta said, as if they weren't family now, as if they hadn't been avoiding each other for years. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Nozel's gaze flickered to Nigel in the distance. His expression softened for only a moment before returning to its usual cold demeanor.
"I want to see Noelle. Alone."
Asta's smile faltered. He glanced toward the garden, where Noelle stood frozen, watching them.
After a long pause, he nodded. "I'll take Nigel inside."
As Asta walked away with their son, Nozel turned to Noelle.
His voice was quiet, but heavy. "This charade is exhausting to watch."
Noelle clenched her fists. "Then stop watching."
Nozel's jaw tightened. "You're my sister. That means I will always watch. I will always protect you."
"I don't need protection," she snapped. "Not from Asta. Not from my own choices."
Nozel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This isn't just about you."
She stiffened.
"You have a son now, Noelle. A child who sees everything." His silver eyes darkened. "How long do you think you can fool him?"
The words struck deeper than she expected.
Nigel was already asking questions. Already noticing things.
Nozel was right.
How much longer could they fool him?
But Noelle refused to waver.
She lifted her chin and met her brother's gaze. "As long as we have to."
Nozel exhaled slowly, as if disappointed—but not surprised.
After a long silence, he turned away.
"If you ever change your mind," he said, pausing at the door, "if you ever want out of this… mess—you know where to find me."
Then he left.
And Noelle stood there, staring at the empty doorway, feeling something cold settle in her chest.
—
That night, Nigel had a nightmare.
Asta woke first, startled by the soft whimpering in the dark.
He rushed to his son's bedside, crouching beside the small bed. "Nigel, buddy, wake up."
Nigel thrashed, his small fingers gripping the blankets. "No—stop—"
Asta's heart clenched.
Carefully, he reached out, brushing a hand through his son's dark curls. "Hey, it's okay. I'm here."
At his touch, Nigel jolted awake, gasping. His blue eyes were wide, filled with unshed tears.
Asta smiled softly. "Bad dream?"
Nigel nodded, sniffling.
Asta lifted him into his arms, rubbing gentle circles into his back. "It's alright, buddy. I got you."
As he rocked his son back and forth, Noelle appeared in the doorway.
She hesitated—then, slowly, walked over, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Nigel turned toward her instantly, reaching for her with small, trembling hands.
She pulled him close, tucking him against her chest. "Shh, I'm here."
For a moment, they sat together in silence, their son curled between them.
Then, in a quiet voice, Nigel murmured, "Mama… do you love Papa?"
The question came so suddenly—so unexpectedly—that Noelle went rigid.
She felt Asta tense beside her.
The room was too quiet.
Nigel lifted his head, staring up at her with wide, innocent eyes. "Uncle Yuno said you don't."
Asta inhaled sharply.
Noelle's entire body went cold.
Yuno.
That bastard.
Noelle forced herself to keep her voice steady. "Uncle Yuno shouldn't be saying things like that."
Nigel frowned. "But is it true?"
Asta cut in before she could answer. "Nigel," he said gently, "Mama and I… we're partners."
It wasn't a lie. Not entirely.
Nigel's small brows furrowed. "But partners love each other."
Asta's throat tightened.
Noelle's hands curled into fists in the blankets.
For the first time, she had no answer.
—
After that night, something changed.
Nigel kept watching. Kept questioning.
He didn't believe their lies so easily anymore.
Noelle could feel the illusion slipping—feel the careful mask she'd spent years maintaining cracking under the weight of her son's innocent curiosity.
How much longer could they keep this up?
How much longer before Nigel knew?
Before he saw them not as the perfect, happy family they pretended to be—
—but as the fractured, broken people they truly were?
—
Noelle had never believed in fate.
She had spent her entire life fighting against expectations—against destiny, against duty, against the chains of nobility that tried to define her.
But some things, it seemed, were inevitable.
Tonight was one of those things.
It started like any other night.
Asta was cleaning up after dinner while Noelle bathed Nigel. Their son, now five years old, was more independent than ever, always insisting I can do it myself! as he splashed in the water.
By the time Noelle tucked him into bed, the house was quiet. Peaceful.
Or at least, it should have been.
But something was off.
Asta was still awake.
Noelle found him in the kitchen, staring blankly at the table, his hands resting against the wood.
He didn't look up when she entered.
Didn't even acknowledge her.
She frowned. "What are you doing?"
A long silence.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"…I saw Yuno today."
Noelle stiffened.
Asta's voice was quiet. "He told me something."
She swallowed hard. "And?"
Asta lifted his head.
His eyes were empty. Hollow.
"Noelle… do you hate me?"
The question came like a blade to the gut.
For a moment, she couldn't breathe.
She should have expected it.
Nigel had already started asking questions. Yuno had been poking at the cracks in their marriage for years.
This confrontation had been coming for a long time.
Still, she wasn't ready.
Noelle forced herself to scoff, crossing her arms. "What kind of stupid question is that?"
Asta didn't blink. Didn't react.
"I just want to know," he said softly. "Do you still hate me?"
His voice was so calm, so tired—like he had already prepared himself for the worst.
Noelle gritted her teeth. "Why does it matter?"
Asta let out a bitter laugh. "Because I don't think I can keep doing this if you do."
The words hit her harder than she expected.
Asta had never said anything like this before.
Never wavered. Never hesitated.
No matter how cruel she had been, no matter how cold—he had always stayed.
Always smiled.
But now, for the first time, that mask was slipping.
She saw the exhaustion in his face. The weariness in his posture.
And she realized, with a sharp pang in her chest—
He was breaking.
She had spent years trying to push him away, hoping he would finally give up on her.
But now that he was at his limit, now that he was on the verge of walking away—
She wasn't sure if she wanted him to.
Noelle turned away, gripping the back of a chair, her nails digging into the wood.
"…I don't hate you," she muttered.
Asta exhaled sharply, like he'd been holding his breath.
Silence stretched between them.
Then, quietly, he asked, "Then why?"
Noelle clenched her fists.
She couldn't answer.
She didn't have an answer.
Why had she treated him like this? Why had she spent years punishing him for a mistake she barely even remembered?
Why did she insist on keeping him close—but never too close?
Her throat felt tight.
Asta sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Noelle…" His voice cracked. "I need to know if there's ever going to be a chance. Even the smallest one. Because if there isn't—"
He swallowed hard.
"I don't think I can stay."
Something in Noelle snapped.
Her head whipped around, eyes blazing. "You're leaving?"
Asta flinched. "No, I—"
"You're leaving," she repeated, stepping closer, her hands trembling. "After everything—after all this time—you're just going to give up?"
Asta stared at her, stunned.
Noelle's vision blurred. She didn't know why she was so angry.
Wasn't this what she had wanted?
Hadn't she wanted him to walk away?
So why did the thought of him actually leaving make her chest feel like it was caving in?
Asta shook his head. "Noelle, I've never wanted to leave. I love you. I love Nigel. I love our family. But I can't keep pretending like this doesn't hurt. Like I'm not—" His voice broke. "Like I'm not dying inside."
Noelle clenched her jaw, looking away.
Then, barely above a whisper, she asked, "Then why did you stay?"
Asta inhaled sharply.
For a long moment, he didn't speak.
Then, in a voice barely louder than a breath, he said—
"Because you're my partner."
Noelle's stomach twisted.
"You loved me unconditionally once," Asta continued, eyes shining. "Now, I'll do the same—for as long as I can still feel love."
Those words spoken without a moment's hesitance, astronomical in worth and sincere without a doubt crashed into her like a wave.
He meant it.
He always had.
Asta had never wavered. Never stopped loving her, no matter how much she hurt him.
And now, he was telling her—
That love wasn't infinite.
That even he had a breaking point.
Her fingers trembled at her sides.
She hated this.
Hated the way his voice cracked, hated the wetness in his eyes, hated the way her own chest ached like something was shattering inside her.
She hated that for the first time in years—
She was afraid of losing him.
Noelle's vision blurred. Her breath hitched.
And before she could stop herself—
She slapped him.
Asta didn't move. Didn't react.
A single tear slipped down Noelle's cheek.
Then she turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
She didn't know where she was going.
Didn't care.
All she knew was that if she stayed a second longer, if she had to look at Asta's broken, desperate expression for even another moment—
She would shatter completely.
—
Noelle locked herself in their bedroom that night.
She heard Asta moving around the house—cleaning up, checking on Nigel, making sure everything was in place.
The usual routine.
Like nothing had changed.
Except it had.
When she finally emerged the next morning, Asta was already awake, sitting at the dining table with a cup of tea in his hands. He didn't look at her.
Didn't greet her with a smile.
Didn't even try to act normal.
The silence between them was thick. Suffocating.
For the first time in their marriage, Asta had stopped pretending.
And Noelle didn't know what to do.
She should have felt relieved.
But all she felt was cold.
—
After that night, something changed.
Asta still took care of Nigel. Still lived with her. Still treated her with kindness.
But it was different now.
He wasn't trying so hard to force a smile. Wasn't clinging to the hope that she might someday love him back.
He didn't look at her like a man desperate for something unattainable.
And that—more than anything—made something in Noelle ache.
She had spent years trying to break him.
She had finally succeeded.
So why did it feel like she had lost?
—
The days turned into months.
Months into years.
By the time Nigel was six, things between them had softened.
Asta no longer forced smiles, and Noelle no longer tried to drive him away.
They weren't lovers.
But they weren't enemies anymore, either.
They had built something—however fragile, however imperfect.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.
—
Then, one evening, Noelle felt it again.
The same nausea. The same sickness.
The same quiet realization.
She was pregnant.
Again.
This time, it was different.
She didn't panic.
Didn't feel anger.
Instead, she sat in silent contemplation, resting a hand over her stomach.
She thought about Asta. About Nigel. About the years they had spent together, the family they had built, the way things had slowly begun to change.
And for the first time, she allowed herself to wonder—
What if?
—
Months later, she lay in bed, exhausted, cradling a newborn girl in her arms.
Asta sat beside her, holding another.
Twins.
A daughter in each of their arms.
Acier and Lichita.
Their names had come to them with ease.
Nigel bounced excitedly beside them, peering down at his new baby sisters.
And then—unexpectedly—Asta and Noelle's gazes met.
They shared a look.
A small, quiet moment of understanding.
Then, for the first time in years—
Asta smiled.
Not the forced, painful smile from before.
Not the desperate, trembling one that begged for her love.
Just a simple, genuine smile.
And for the first time in years, this time—
Noelle found herself smiling back.
It wasn't love.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But it was something.
And for now—
That was enough.