Only the heavens knew why Ginny had returned to Blaise. She told herself it was the child she carried, the quiet thrum of life beneath her ribs that tied her to him whether she wanted it or not. Some days she blamed madness. Other days she blamed fate, because it had always had a twisted sense of humour where she was concerned.
And sometimes, when the house was quiet and the loneliness pressed in too close, a quieter thought drifted through her mind. A thought she never dared to name, because it made her feel weak. Because it made her feel like she still wanted something from him. But she was here regardless, sitting in the room he had set aside for her, surrounded by the proof of a future she wasn't sure she wanted.
How was anyone supposed to love a killer. How was anyone supposed to share a bed, a life, a child with the man who had taken her brother from her. The very idea felt like a bruise every time she breathed. She had hated him at first with a steady, burning fury that scorched her from the inside out. She had wanted to hurt him, to break him the way he had broken her. But grief never stayed still. It changed shape over time, curling inward, then outward, then back again, until she could not recognise what she felt anymore.
Blaise did not understand her. She knew that with absolute certainty. He lived his life like a sharpened blade, elegant and deadly, carved by a world she had never wanted to understand.
Violence hovered around him like a shadow, a second skin. He moved through darkness the way other people slipped into water. It was effortless for him. Natural. Terrifying. And yet he could be gentle with her in moments he did not seem to notice himself. He never apologised, never explained, never offered the kind of comfort she ached for. Instead, he tried to care for her in the only language he knew.
It sounded simple in theory. Give the woman you love beautiful things. Build her the finest room. Fill it with silk, jewels, and perfume. Surround her with luxury until her grief softened into gratitude. But everything he gave her felt hollow. Beautiful, yes, but empty, a poor substitute for the things she truly needed. Ginny's childhood had been noisy, messy, filled with mismatched plates and warm bread on the table. Love had never looked like wealth to her. Love had looked like arms around her shoulders after a bad day, or laughter echoing off cracked walls. It had looked like ordinary, imperfect softness.
She looked around the room again, taking in the polished wood, the velvet drapes, the gleam of gold-framed mirrors. A sanctuary, he would have called it. A cage, she had called it in her mind more times than she could count. She picked up one of the perfume bottles, small and jewel-like, its glass tinted the colour of summer flowers. The scent rose up to meet her, sweet and heavy, the kind of fragrance worn by women in glossy magazines. She set it back down carefully. Everything in the room was chosen with intention. Beautiful. Thoughtful. A gesture from a man who was trying, even if he did not know how.
She wondered if he knew that this was the saddest part. He was not cruel. He was not indifferent. He was lost, stumbling through feelings he had never learned how to name, reaching for her with hands that had only ever known how to hurt. He cared for her, she knew that much, though he would never say the words out loud. He surrounded her with gifts because that was what he had been taught. That was the language he had inherited. And she did not know whether to laugh at the absurdity of it or cry for what he had never been given.
Her mind drifted to the rare moments when the mask slipped. When she caught him looking at her with something unguarded, something that made her chest tighten. He would soften for a heartbeat, just long enough for her to wonder who he might have been if the world had not carved him into something sharp and cold.
She hated that she noticed. She hated that she sometimes felt a tug of warmth she did not want. She did not love him. She would not let herself love him. And yet her heart wavered in ways that made her feel like she was betraying her brother's memory just by breathing near Blaise without wanting to strike him.
She pressed her hand to her stomach, feeling the faint swell beneath her fingertips, and exhaled slowly. The truth was a quiet thing, one she barely allowed herself to think.
She had come back because she needed answers. She had come back because she was tired of running. She had come back because the child inside her did not deserve to grow up with half a story. And maybe, in some buried corner of her heart, she had come back because she wanted Blaise to prove her wrong. Wanted him to be someone she could stand beside without feeling like she was betraying the dead.
But wanting and having were never the same thing.
The sound of footsteps carried down the hallway, steady and unhurried, yet somehow heavy enough to press against her skin. She straightened without thinking, fingers brushing over the silk robe he had gifted her, smoothing out a crease that hadn't been there. By the time the door opened, she was already bracing herself.
He filled the doorway the way he always did, quiet but imposing, his silhouette a dark cutout against the soft glow of the hall. His eyes found her quickly. They always did. He looked at her like he was searching for something in her face that he never quite managed to find.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them like a worn rope, frayed but still holding.
His gaze drifted to the vanity, to the neat line of untouched boxes tied with perfect ribbons. "You didn't open the last one," he said after a moment, his voice low. There was something fragile under the smoothness. Something he did not want her to hear.
Her lips curved into a tight, humourless smile. "Let me guess. Another necklace. More diamonds." She shrugged lightly, though it tasted bitter. "You can stop trying. You can't buy your way out of this."
A muscle in his jaw tightened. He stepped further into the room, but she could see the care in his movements, as though he was approaching a wounded animal. "I'm not trying to buy anything," he said quietly. "Forgiveness is… beyond me. I know that. I just want you to be comfortable here."
"Comfortable," she echoed, the word landing flat on her tongue. "Blaise, you could line these walls with gold and it wouldn't change what this is. A beautiful room is still a cage."
Something flickered across his face then, a brief stutter of pain that he smothered so fast she questioned whether she had imagined it. He turned away, moving to the window and looking out over the estate like he needed the distance to control himself. "You think I don't know what this place feels like to you," he said softly. "You think I don't know what I feel like to you."
She hadn't expected that. Her anger dimmed for a moment, replaced by confusion, by a strange ache she didn't want to name. "Then why?" she whispered. "Why keep me here. Why gifts, why all of this, when none of it changes what happened."
He turned back to her, leaning against the window frame as though the weight of the truth was too much to bear upright. When he looked at her, the mask fell away just enough for her to see the fracture lines beneath. "Because I don't know how else to show you I care," he admitted. "This is the only way I learned. The only way I know."
Her throat tightened. It would have been easier if he had been cruel. Easier if he had given her something solid to hate. Instead, he stood there with a kind of quiet desperation, offering her the only broken language of affection he understood.
She dropped her gaze, her fingers curling around the silk belt of her robe. "Care doesn't look like this," she murmured. "It doesn't look like walls and guards and gifts that mean nothing."
He let out a breath, sharp and heavy. "I know what I did to you," he said, his voice thick with something rough-edged. "I know what I took from you. I took your brother. I can say it, Ginny. I live with it every day. But if you're here… if you stay… maybe I can give you something better than the man I used to be."
Her head snapped up. In his eyes she saw something dangerous and fragile at the same time. He was stripped bare for once, stripped of bravado and cold certainty. There was a man beneath all that darkness, a man who did not know how to love but was trying anyway, fumbling through the wreckage he had created.
For a heartbeat, her chest ached with the weight of seeing him like this. But then his face shifted, the vulnerability shuttered away as though it had never been there. He gestured toward the gifts with a faint, resigned smile. "If you want me to stop, I'll stop. I only wanted you to know I'm trying."
Trying. Such a small word for something so impossibly broken.
She nodded because she didn't know what else to do. "Fine. Do what you want."
He held her gaze for a long moment, searching her face as though hoping something in her expression might change. When it didn't, he dipped his head and left quietly, closing the door without a sound. His footsteps faded until they were swallowed by the house.
She stared at the doorway long after he was gone, her hand drifting to her belly where her child shifted in slow, fluttering movements. This life inside her felt like the only steady thing she had, the only piece of the future she could bear to think about.
She closed her eyes and whispered into the quiet. "Maybe one day, we'll figure this out."
But even as the words left her, they felt like a wish cast into an ocean.
~~~~~~
Hermione arrived at the Zabini mansion, her heart pounding in her chest. The once elegant house was now a chaotic battlefield. Furniture was overturned, shards of broken china littered the floor, and an eerie silence hung in the air. It was as if a storm had raged through the house, leaving destruction in its wake.
She found Ginny in the garden sitting on a bench.
She found Ginny sitting alone on a garden bench. Her voice was firm as she began, "Ginerva, listen to me. I've had enough. You're going to listen, whether you like it or not. I know you're incapable of doing that on your own, so I'm going to cast a silencing charm on you."
"Ron forbade me from attending social events, especially if he couldn't come. He intercepted my letters, scrutinising both Magical and Muggle communications, cutting me off from my support system. His possessiveness deepened, alienating me from friends by accusing you all of being bad influences or trying to lure me away. When confronted, he flatly denied his controlling behaviour, insisting I was exaggerating or delusional. He blamed me for his outbursts, claiming my behaviour provoked him or that I was the problem. He eroded my self-confidence by questioning MY intelligence, memory, and judgement, making me doubt my own sanity. He would shower me with affection and attention, creating a false sense of security that made leaving impossible. And then, he imprisoned me, Ginerva. Your brother is no saint."
she revealed the harsh truth.
"Your brother was a monster. I was ecstatic to break free. It seems he's found solace in Lavender's arms."
Exhausted and vulnerable, her chest heaved. The truth, once locked away, now hung heavy in the air. A swift movement of her wand cast a silencing spell over Ginny.
"Blaise found out everything about your brother. He told Draco, and now Ron is dead. This is why all of this happened." she had a cold mask on.
The area was heavy with tension. Her voice, when it came, cut through the silence like a knife. "I am not going to surrender myself to you. You used my accident as a weapon. You keep attacking my husband because all he has done this entire time is to keep me safe." Her words were laced with anger and defiance. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. She could feel her heart pounding in her ears.
Her voice was cold, calculated. A stark contrast to the warmth of the garden. "Your own husband took part in it, yes, but all he has done this entire year or so is keep you in your princess tower. Locked away from the truth. Locked away from your brother's miserable life and the family business that all of the Slytherin's appear to do." Her eyes seemed to bore into her, demanding a reaction.
Her expression softened, the sharp edge of her demeanor giving way to something rawer, more vulnerable. "I'm not trying to be cruel," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "But it's agonizing to see someone live comfortably in a gilded cage, oblivious to the world that's falling apart just outside. You have a responsibility—not just as a wife, but as a person—to open your eyes. To see the truth. To understand how your choices ripple outward."
Her tone hardened, resolve sharpening each word. "I care about you, Ginny. But I care about my family more. I can't stand by while you choose ignorance over accountability."
She took a step back, her voice dropping to an icy whisper. "And if you find it easy to speak ill of me, it's only because if you spoke honestly about yourself, no one would listen—or care."
Her gaze lingered for a moment before she turned away, her parting words cutting like a blade. "Goodbye."
Her eyes flashed with anger as she turned on her heel. The conversation was over. There was nothing more to say. With a sharp flick of her wand, she disappeared in a blinding flash of light, leaving Ginny standing alone in the garden, their words hanging unanswered in the still air.
~~~~~~
For an entire month, Ginny could not be reached. She drifted through her days like someone who had been emptied from the inside, a girl who had once burned bright now barely able to lift her own head. The fire that had always crackled in her blood felt smothered. Her voice, usually sharp and alive, was a soft ghost of itself. Nothing soothed her. Nothing softened the ache. She cried until she was too exhausted to cry, then sat in a silence that felt heavier than grief itself.
Her world had cracked open. Every truth she had clung to, every certainty she had wrapped herself in, fell apart in slow, painful pieces until she stood with nothing but the ruins. She had always believed in her family with a kind of stubborn loyalty. She had loved Blaise with the reckless trust of someone who thought love alone could fix anything. She had leaned into Hermione with the confidence of a sister who never questioned the bond. Now all of that felt pulled apart, thread by thread, until she wondered what parts of her life had ever been real.
Each morning she woke with the same crushing awareness that she no longer had brothers to run to. Fred had been gone for years, and she had grieved him as best she could, but Ron… Ron was a different kind of grief. It was not only death she mourned. It was the loss of who she had believed he was. She kept remembering him as a boy who threw an arm around her shoulders, the brother who stood with her on platform nine and three quarters, the one who shared sweets with her when no one was looking. Yet every memory now felt warped, as if a thin sheet of glass had always been between them and she had mistaken the reflection for something whole.
She began to see him differently. She did not want to, but there was no avoiding it anymore. Ron had not been a good man. She remembered the sudden bursts of anger, the way he reacted first and thought later, the sharp tone he used whenever he felt he was losing control. She replayed arguments she had brushed aside, moments she had excused. She felt sick at how much she had ignored.
Lavender's bruises returned to her mind, clear and vivid. The purple shadows on her arms. The way Lavender tugged her sleeve down just a little too quickly. Ginny remembered asking, remembered the half-smile Lavender had forced, the soft laugh that never reached her eyes. Lavender had insisted she had tripped, insisted it was nothing. And Ginny, desperate to protect the image she had of her brother, had let herself believe it.
Now those bruises haunted her. They were no longer small mysteries or misunderstandings. They were warnings she had chosen not to see. They were evidence of her own refusal to look closer, her own fear of what she might find if she did. Her chest tightened with shame when she thought about it. She had defended Ron with her whole heart, convinced that loyalty meant protecting him from judgment. Yet the judgement had been deserved.
The truth had not only broken her. It had exposed every blind spot she had ever carried, every comforting story she had clung to, every part of herself that had chosen silence over honesty.
She had lost her brothers long before they died. And now she had to face the truth of who they had been, who she had been, and who she might become if she kept looking away.
It hurt. It burned. It hollowed her out.
And then there was Blaise.
Blaise had been the first glow in the dark, the one whose charm came as naturally as breathing, the one who carried his mystery like a second skin. She had fallen for him without hesitation. He made her feel seen in a way she had not felt in years, and she let herself believe he was the kind of man who could hold her steady. He had been her shelter during storms she thought would drown her. She had trusted him with the sort of faith a younger version of herself would have called foolish, but she had never cared. She wanted the thrill. She wanted the heat. She wanted him.
Now she could see the cracks she had ignored. Blaise was not invincible. He was not her shield. He was a man carved out of shadows, shaped by a world she had never truly understood. He lived in a place where darkness was currency, where secrets were armor, where violence sat close to affection. The truth forced its way into her chest until she could barely breathe. He was not the hero she had painted in her mind. He had never claimed to be. She had built that myth herself, hoping it would save her.
And maybe, she admitted with a heavy ache, she no longer wanted to reach for the man beneath the shadows. Maybe she was too tired. Maybe she had nothing left to give him.
But nothing pierced her quite as deeply as the fracture with Hermione.
Hermione had been her safe place. Her sister in spirit long before the idea of marriage had ever linked their lives. They had whispered dreams to each other under starry skies, laughed until their ribs hurt, leaned on each other through heartbreak and war and all the pieces of adulthood they had stumbled through together. Hermione had been the one who steadied her when she was young, who spoke to her like she mattered. Ginny had never doubted her. Not once.
Yet Hermione had guarded secrets with a discipline Ginny had never imagined she possessed. She understood it now, too late. Hermione had built her walls not out of cruelty, but out of the instinct to survive a world that had already carved into her too deeply. The revelation made Ginny feel foolish. How had she missed the signs? How had she not seen the quiet defences Hermione carried under her steady smiles?
It felt like betrayal because it came from the one person she believed incapable of hurting her. The truth was more painful. Hermione had been protecting herself. And maybe, in some twisted way, protecting Ginny too.
Her fairytale view of everyone she loved shattered piece by piece. The people she held close were no longer the flawless figures she had once imagined. They were human, bruised and bitter and broken in their own private ways. Blaise was not the savior she once adored. Ron had not been the brother she pretended him to be. Hermione had not been the open book she always claimed.
And Ginny felt the weight of all of it pressing into her chest until she could hardly draw breath. It was as if she stood on a shore watching the tide retreat, leaving her with only footprints where her life used to be.
For the first time, she saw the world clearly. No soft filters, no rosy stories, no protective illusions. She had opened her eyes, and the truth hurt in a way she had not known she could hurt. It was sharp. It was cold. It was lonely.
Unbelievably lonely.
Because in losing the versions of them she had carried in her heart, she had lost a version of herself too. A version built on trust, certainty, belonging. And now she stood in the middle of her life with empty hands, unsure what to reach for, unsure how to put herself back together without the people she had relied on for so long.
She felt scattered. As though each person had taken a piece of her when they left. And she did not yet know how to reclaim those pieces, or even if she wanted to.
She had no one.
The thought circled in her mind like a quiet echo, filling the empty spaces of her days. She moved through the halls of the Zabini mansion as if she were made of smoke, pale and untethered, a familiar ghost drifting through a place that no longer felt like home. Every polished surface, every silent corridor reminded her of what she had lost and what she had failed to see. She had grown up surrounded by noise, by the roar of siblings and the warmth of a family that loved with reckless abandon. She had once been held, known, understood. Now she existed in a house built on luxury and secrets, surrounded by everything except the one thing she needed most.
Love. Or at the very least, certainty.
She walked through room after room, trying to understand how life could shift so violently, how the ground beneath her could change without warning. She had thought she knew herself. She had believed she was strong because her strength had always been reflected back to her in the eyes of the people she loved. She had relied on Ron's loud presence, on Hermione's steady guidance, on the way Blaise had once looked at her as if she were the sun. She had taken their attention and affection as proof of who she was.
Without them, the truth settled in like a cold wind. She had never learned to stand alone.
Silence became both her torment and her teacher. It forced her to sit with memories she had tried to outrun, to confront the sharp edges of the life she had built on borrowed certainty. She replayed her past again and again, searching for answers in the shattered pieces, trying to understand where she had lost herself along the way. She saw moments she had ignored, warnings she had brushed aside, choices she had made out of fear rather than conviction. Each one was a reminder of how much she had depended on others to tell her who she was meant to be.
As the days bled together, she felt her grief shifting, the tears drying into something quieter and more durable. The pain settled low in her chest, no longer a storm, but a weight she learned to carry. She found herself getting up in the mornings without breaking, walking through the house without feeling like she might collapse. She sat with the silence, let it speak to her, let it strip her bare until only the truth remained.
One night, as the last traces of daylight faded from her windows, she whispered into the dimness, "Who am I without them?"
The question hung in the air. No answer came, but for the first time, the silence did not feel cruel. It felt honest.
She realized then that she did not know who she was without her family, without her friends, without the men who had shaped her life in ways she had never fully understood. She did not know who she was without the weight of Ron's temper, without Hermione's guidance, without the fierce and complicated love she had shared with Blaise.
But maybe she could learn. Maybe she could start again, not as someone's sister, someone's wife, someone's responsibility, but as herself. Whoever that turned out to be.
So she began rebuilding, slowly and unsteadily, finding pieces of herself she had forgotten. She discovered a quiet resilience in the stillness, a strength that did not depend on anyone else's belief or affection. She realized she could exist without someone holding her hand, that she could breathe without waiting for someone to tell her she was safe, that she could want more than the life she had been handed.
Maybe she had no one now. Maybe that loneliness felt like a hollow space inside her. But she was learning that the emptiness was not something to fear. It was room to grow.
Still, as comforting as that thought tried to be, it faltered as she exhaled and let her gaze wander over the silent room. Because she was not entirely alone.
She still had one person.
Her husband.
Her brilliant, infuriating, dangerous, unhinged husband.
Her psychopath husband.
And whether that made her feel steadier or more uncertain, she could not yet say.
Blaise was still there, a dark and steady presence that refused to fade. He was like a shadow that had learned her shape, a force she could feel even when her eyes were closed. Every time she moved through the quiet house, she felt him somewhere nearby. Not hovering, not demanding, simply existing in a way that anchored her more than she wanted to admit. He had become her constant, the only thing that had not slipped through her fingers while the rest of her life fell apart.
For all the chaos between them, for all the fractured pieces of their marriage, she could not pretend her heart had stopped wanting him. She still loved him. The truth had been clawing at her for weeks, painful and undeniable. Maybe that love was tangled with grief, with fear, with the strange comfort of familiarity. Maybe some people would call it unhealthy or misguided, but labels did nothing to lessen the ache she felt when she thought of him. Her feelings were messy and raw, but they were real.
He had stood beside her through every storm she had tried to outrun. He had held her in those nights when she woke screaming, when the world seemed to blur at the edges and she could not tell dreams from memories. He had been there through her spiraling panic, through her confusion, through every moment she thought she might break. And he had never once pulled away.
He had kept her safe in ways she only now understood. He had been ruthless for her, violent for her, unyielding for her. While she lived in the soft, oblivious part of their life, he had stood guard in the shadows, facing down threats she had never been allowed to see. There had been blood on his hands, but she knew now that some of it had been spilled in her name. She did not know how to feel about that, not fully, but she could not deny the truth of it.
And he had loved her. Fiercely, obsessively, almost painfully. He loved with a kind of intensity that scared her and steadied her all at once. It was not gentle love, not tender in the way fairy tales promised. It was the kind of love that clung. The kind that held on even when pushed away. The kind that whispered promises in the dark and made her believe them, even when she tried not to.
She remembered the quiet moments, the ones that lived between their arguments and their silences. The way he looked at her like she was something rare. The way he touched her with such careful reverence, as if he could memorize her bones through his fingertips. The way his voice softened only for her. All those small, private gestures that made her feel seen in a way she had not felt with anyone else.
She had lost her brothers. She had lost the illusion of the family she once thought she had. She had lost the easy trust she'd grown up with. But Blaise remained. Not perfect, not redeemed, not healed, but present. Steady. Unwilling to let her drift away, no matter how far she tried to go.
There was comfort in that, even if she hated herself for needing it.
She was beginning to understand that love was not the clean, gentle thing she had dreamed about when she was young. Real love was flawed. Real love was shaped by pain and choice and the willingness to stay even when everything in you screamed to run. Real love was what remained when illusions shattered and only the truth was left standing.
He had seen every broken part of her. He had watched her unravel, watched her lose faith in everything she thought she knew. And he had stayed. He had not tried to lie to her, not anymore. He had not tried to soothe her with empty promises. He simply stayed in her orbit, quiet and relentless, as if waiting for her to decide what she wanted.
She did not know what the future looked like. She did not know if they would heal or destroy each other or build something new from the ruins. But as she sat alone, the weight of her thoughts pressing against her ribs, she knew one thing with startling clarity.
He was still hers. And she was still his.
In the quiet moments, when the world felt cold and empty and the walls seemed to echo with the ghosts of everything she had lost, he was there. His presence settled beside her like warmth drifting toward chilled skin, steady and real in a way nothing else had been for months. She felt it even before he touched her, that quiet certainty that he was watching her with those dark, searching eyes, waiting to see if she needed him or if she wanted to stand on her own.
He was learning, slowly, painfully, to step back just enough to let her breathe. He was learning to trust that she was not going to crumble every time her thoughts darkened, that she could walk through the shadows without him dragging her into his. It was new for him. It was hard. But it was real. And she felt that change more deeply than she ever expected.
He was the only one who knew the truth, all of it. The ugliness. The fear. The broken pieces of her family that she had clung to for years because it was easier than seeing the truth. He knew what Ron had become. He knew the lies she had been fed, the stories she grew up believing. And instead of judging her for how blindly she had trusted, he simply accepted her. Every scar. Every mistake. Every trembling breath she took when the world felt too heavy.
Sometimes she wondered if this was the kind of love she had been searching for without even knowing it. Not the fairytale she had imagined when she was sixteen, not the easy kind that wrapped everything in softness. This one had been forged in storms. It was cracked, battered, tangled with pain. Yet somehow, against every odd, it had survived. It had changed shape, grown teeth, and learned to stand on its own two feet.
She could feel it in the way he touched her now, gentle in a way that did not belong to the man the world feared. She could see it in the way he looked at her, as if she were the only thing tethering him to his own humanity. There was a quiet intensity in him, a reverence that she still did not fully understand, but she felt its truth every time he whispered her name.
She was not alone. Not anymore. Not with him beside her in the quiet hours when her fears clawed at her chest. She was learning how to hold herself up, learning how to exist outside the roles others had forced on her. She was learning to be strong because she wanted to be, not because she had no other choice.
But she also knew there was no weakness in leaning on him. No shame in letting herself sink into the safety of his arms when the world became too loud. Their love was flawed and fierce, scarred by everything they had lost and everything they had done, and yet it was the one thing that had not abandoned her. It was the one thing that had not faded when everything else had fallen apart.
Maybe, with time, she would find her way back to herself fully. Maybe one day she would feel whole again. But for now, she let herself breathe in the quiet peace of dawn, curled against his chest as the morning light slipped across the room.
She let herself let go, just a little. She let the weight of old illusions fall away, one by one. She let herself believe that she could build something new from the ruins. Not a fairytale. Not a dream stitched from someone else's expectations. But a life.
A life where she could stand beside him as a partner, not a shadow. A life where she could finally learn what strength felt like when it came from within.
And as he held her, steady and warm, she felt the faintest spark of something gentle flicker inside her. Something she had thought was lost forever.
~~~~~~
After two weeks of silence and thought and the hollow ache of being alone in a house that suddenly felt too large, she came to her decision. It did not arrive in a rush. It unfolded slowly, like something tired finally settling into its rightful place. She would choose the kind of happiness that belonged to real people in real lives. The kind with rough edges and shadows. The kind that was not perfect but still hers. And with that choice came another truth she had been circling around for days. She would choose her husband. Whatever came next, she wanted to face it beside him.
Her steps down the hallway were soft but certain, each one grounding her in what she had finally allowed herself to feel. When she pushed open the bedroom door, a cloud of steam drifted out from the adjoining bathroom. He had just stepped out of the shower. Water clung to his skin, tracing the lines of his shoulders and chest, his hair darkened and pushed back from his face. He turned toward her, towel in hand, his expression still and unreadable.
For a while they simply looked at one another. Not speaking. Not moving. Just two people who had spent too long pretending that distance was safer than honesty.
"Hello," she said quietly, her heartbeat loud in her ears.
"Hello," he answered, his voice gentle but cautious, as if one wrong word might push her away again.
She drew a breath that scraped against the tightness in her throat. "I'm lonely."
His eyes softened, something unguarded flickering there before he could hide it. "So am I," he said. His voice carried a truth they had both been avoiding. "Now that we are being honest, tell me how I can help you."
A small, almost nervous smile tugged at her mouth. "Cuddle me," she whispered.
He stilled as if the request meant more than she knew. Then he nodded, his gaze steady. "Come, get in bed."
She slid beneath the covers. The mattress dipped as he joined her. He lay close but not quite close enough, as if he was still unsure of how welcome he really was. She could feel the care in his restraint, the effort it took him not to pull her into his arms without question.
"Can you cuddle me?" she asked again, softer this time, almost shy.
"As you wish," he said, and his voice was calm even as tension hummed beneath it. He wrapped his arms around her, and she sank into the warmth of his body, even while the distance between their hearts lingered like a shadow.
After a moment, she reached down, took his hand, and guided it to her belly. His breath caught. His fingers stiffened against her skin. This was the first time she had let him touch her like this since she had discovered she was pregnant. She had not realized how tightly she had been guarding herself until she felt him tremble at the contact.
At first, his touch was light, almost afraid. Then he felt a small movement beneath his palm. She felt the shift in him, the way his entire body loosened. His fingers moved slowly, tracing soft, reverent circles. He shifted down the bed until he could lean close, his mouth hovering just above the curve of her belly.
He placed a careful kiss on her skin.
Her breath hitched. Something deep inside her stirred.
He kissed her again, then again, each touch tender and almost shy, his lips forming a quiet path over the small swell of their child. And then he began to whisper. The sound was low and warm, too soft for her to catch the words, but she could feel the meaning in every breath.
She watched his face as he spoke to the child she carried. She saw wonder there. Awe. Something gentle and fierce all at once. Something she had not let herself see in him before.
He kissed every inch of her belly with a patience that held no demand behind it. Only devotion. A devotion that rooted itself in the center of her chest and made her feel unsteady.
Until now, she had not understood how much this meant to him. Not fully. Not in the quiet, reverent way he touched her. Not in the soft, whispered promises he poured into the skin beneath his lips. Not in the tenderness that broke through the hardened layers of a man she once thought impenetrable.
And as she lay there, watching him, she felt something inside her shift too. Something slow and fragile and impossibly hopeful.
He seemed lost in his own world, his focus entirely on the life growing within her. His hands caressed her belly, gentle and reverent, like he was holding something precious and fragile. He pressed his cheek against her skin, closing his eyes, and she could feel the warmth of his breath, the steady rhythm of his breathing as he whispered to their child, his words filled with promises, hopes, and dreams.
He stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, murmuring soft words to the baby, his fingers tracing soothing patterns across her belly. He whispered stories, dreams of the future, and reassurances she could barely make out, but she didn't need to hear every word to understand. She could feel the depth of his love in every touch, every whispered syllable. She could see how much he wanted this, how much he wanted them.
Her heart swelled, and for the first time in a long time, she felt tears in her eyes—not from sadness, but from something close to happiness. She hadn't expected this, hadn't anticipated feeling this close to him after everything that had happened. But here he was, holding her, holding their child, his love laid bare in a way words could never fully capture.
Finally, he looked up, his eyes meeting hers, and in that gaze, she saw everything he couldn't say out loud. It was a silent promise, an unspoken vow. She knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them together, and he would be there by her side every step of the way. This wasn't just his child or her child—it was their child, a bond that would forever connect them, a new beginning they both desperately needed.
She reached out, gently cupping his face, and he leaned into her touch, his hand resting protectively over her belly. They stayed like that, in each other's arms, finding comfort in the quiet, unspoken understanding that had grown between them. The past was filled with hurt and mistakes, wounds that still lingered, but in this moment, that weight softened, lifted just a little by the silent promises between them.
As they held each other, she looked deeply into his eyes, searching for the words that still felt so elusive, but her heart already knew what she needed.
"I need to kiss you," she whispered, her voice barely audible, a breath of longing and forgiveness.
Before she'd even finished speaking, his lips were on hers, soft yet filled with the urgency of all they had been through. In that kiss was everything—apologies, promises, and the faint hope of a future where love might outlast the shadows of their past. They held on tightly, each kiss a silent vow, a piece of rebuilding trust, a way to bridge the gaps and bruises life had left them with.
They melted into each other, the warmth and familiarity of their bodies rekindling memories of happier times. She let her fingers trace the curve of his jaw, trailing down his neck and shoulders, each touch a reminder of the bond they were slowly reforging. He held her carefully, his hands gentle, tracing small, soothing circles on her back, and his touch brought her a sense of peace she hadn't realized she still needed.
As they kissed, her hands began to roam, exploring his body. She traced her fingers along his broad shoulders, feeling the defined contours of his chest beneath his shirt. Her touch sent shivers down his spine, and he let out a low, satisfied groan.
Her fingers deftly unbuttoned his pajama, revealing his taut abdomen and the trail of hair leading down to his groin. She paused for a moment, teasing him, before continuing her exploration. Her hands slid beneath the waistband of his pants, finding the bulge in his boxers that indicated his arousal. His breath hitched as she grasped his length, feeling the heat and hardness of his cock through the fabric.
Blaise pushed her back gently onto the bed, his lips trailing kisses down her neck, sending tingles down her spine. He nipped at her sensitive skin, making her gasp and arch her back, offering herself to him. His hands joined in the exploration, sliding up her thighs, lifting her nightgown slowly, inch by inch, revealing her smooth, toned legs.
Her breath grew shallow as she felt his touch getting closer to her core. She wanted him desperately, her cunt already throbbing and wet with anticipation. As his fingers reached the edge of her panties, he could feel the dampness that signaled her excitement. He teased her, running his fingers along the fabric, making her squirm with need.
"Please," she whispered, her voice hoarse with desire. "I need you."
He smirked, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, I plan on giving you exactly what you need, Cuore."
With that, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her knickers and slowly slid them down her legs, exposing her glistening folds. She was unashamed, her body on fire for him. She spread her legs willingly, inviting him to explore her most intimate parts.
He lowered his head, his warm breath caressing her sensitive skin. He kissed the inside of her thighs, leaving a trail of wetness as he inched closer to her center. Her hands gripped the bedsheets, her knuckles turning white as she anticipated his touch.
Finally, his tongue made contact with her clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through her body. He started slowly, licking and teasing the sensitive bud, making she moan and squirm beneath him. She tasted so sweet, and he wanted to savor every inch of her. He lapped at her folds, exploring her wetness, before plunging his tongue deep inside her.
"Oh, fuck!" She cried out, her hips bucking involuntarily as his tongue worked its magic. He was relentless, his mouth and tongue skilled in the art of pleasure. He sucked on her clit, taking it into his mouth and suckling gently, then increasing the pressure as he sensed her building orgasm.
Her hands found his hair again, her fingers entwining in the silky strands as she guided his head, urging him to continue. "Yes, right there," she panted, her voice breathless. "Don't stop, please..."
He obliged, his fingers joining in the dance, rubbing tiny circles around her clit as he sucked and licked. Her body trembled, her orgasm building to an unbearable peak. She was so close, teetering on the edge of ecstasy.
Suddenly, she shifted on the bed, her movements urgent and desperate. She positioned herself above him, her hands grasping his hard cock, guiding it towards her entrance. She didn't have any patience for slow, sensual love-making at this moment. She needed to be fucked, hard and fast.
"I want you inside me," she whispered, her voice thick with desire.
Blaise, always eager to please, positioned himself beneath her, his cock throbbing and aching for release. He guided her hips, helping her to straddle him, and then she lowered herself onto his length, taking him deep inside her in one smooth motion.
She let out a satisfied moan as she felt him fill her completely. She began to move, riding him with abandon, her hips rocking back and forth, taking control of the pace. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, her nipples hardening in the cool air.
His hands cupped her bum, helping her to find a rhythm as she rode him. He marveled at the sight of her—her eyes closed in pleasure, her lips parted, a look of pure ecstasy on her face. He reached up, pinching her hardened nipples between his thumb and forefinger, twisting and tugging gently, which caused her to cry out in delight.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice raspy. "Ride my cock, baby. Show me how much you missed it."
Her movements became more frantic, her hips moving in quick, short bursts as she neared her climax. His fingers continued to work their magic, rubbing her clit in circles, sending waves of pleasure through her body.
"Oh my.. I'm gonna cum!" She exclaimed, her voice high-pitched and urgent.
Her body began to shake, her orgasm taking control. She rode him harder, her cunt clenching and releasing around his cock, milking him as she came. He felt the hot, wet contractions of her orgasm, which pushed him closer to the edge of his own release.
As her orgasm subsided, her legs shook with the aftermath of pleasure. She collapsed onto his chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps. He held her close, his hands stroking her back gently, allowing her to recover from the intense climax.
But the night was far from over, and he had no intention of letting this end just yet. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he rolled them over, positioning himself on top.