Night came once again.
As usual, Dream read before sleeping.
Ron sat beside her, unseen—his invisibility active.
For nearly an hour, Dream read quietly, one hand holding the book while the other rested on her belly, moving gently as if soothing the life inside her. Finally, she closed the book and turned off the lamp.
"You know, my child," she whispered, "your father is a very kind man. He was always there for me when I needed him."
She smiled softly.
"I remember when my father told me to come with him for a trip. I agreed… and that's where I met your father. I was five years old." She let out a small giggle.
Ron heard her and smiled.
Dream continued speaking to the baby.
"When I met your father in this time, I was scared. I thought that if I told him we were married eight hundred years ago, he'd think I was a madwoman." She chuckled quietly. "Then one day, he told me he wanted to find his original wife."
She paused, amused by the memory.
"I was shocked that he even knew about me… but then he said he didn't remember her name." She laughed softly. "He was so sincere. He let me live in this house and never once looked at me strangely—until he discovered that I was his original wife."
Her voice faded.
Sleep claimed her.
Ron's smile deepened as he listened.
Like the previous night, he stayed with her. Whenever pain stirred, Ron would cancel his invisibility, sit beside her, and comfort her until it passed.
"Ron, you're too good," Dream murmured sleepily once. "But I wish you were really here. But, if you were… who would fight the Titan?"
She tightened her grip around his hand.
"I am here with you," Ron whispered into her ear. "I don't care about Titans or monsters or anyone else. I only care about you, my love."
Warmth spread through her.
"Ron… you're too sweet," she giggled faintly.
Ron gently patted her hand and stayed with her until morning.
Before Dream woke, he prepared breakfast—making sure every sweet craving was accounted for.
Then, silently, Ron activated his invisibility once more.
And watched over her as she lived her day.
Days passed quietly.
Ron stayed.
Every night, he sat beside Dream as she read, as she spoke to their child, as sleep slowly claimed her. And every day, though unseen, he helped her in a hundred small ways.
In the mornings, before the sun rose, Ron cleaned the house. He moved carefully, silently—washing dishes, folding clothes, opening windows just enough to let fresh air in. By the time Dream woke, everything was already done.
She would pause sometimes, confused.
"…Did I do this yesterday?" she'd murmur to herself.
Then she would smile and shake her head, blaming pregnancy fog.
Ron would smile too.
When Dream felt tired during the day, a chair would always be closer than she remembered. When her back ached, a pillow would somehow be placed exactly where she needed it. When she craved something sweet, it would already be waiting in the kitchen—as if the house itself understood her.
At night, the pain came and went.
Sometimes it was mild.
Sometimes it made her grip the sheets and breathe through clenched teeth.
Each time, Ron canceled his invisibility without hesitation.
He would sit beside her, rub her back, hold her hand, whisper reassurances she barely heard but always felt.
"I'm here," he'd say softly.
"You're doing great."
"Just breathe."
Dream would relax every time.
She never questioned why the pain faded faster when she spoke his name.
Sometimes, half-asleep, she'd turn toward him.
"Ron… are you watching again?" she'd ask quietly.
He never answered.
But she always smiled, as if she already knew.
On one of the days, Dream sat near the window in the afternoon, sunlight warming her face. She rested both hands on her belly and spoke softly.
"You know, my child… your father used to watch over me like this too. Even when I couldn't see him."
Ron stood behind her.
Close enough to touch.
Too far to be seen.
At night, she talked more.
She told the baby stories—about Ron being clumsy with emotions, about how serious he looked when he promised to protect someone, about how gentle his hands were despite his strength.
Ron listened to every word.
Some nights, guilt weighed heavier than anything he'd ever fought.
Other nights, love made it bearable.
On the fifth night, Dream stirred in her sleep and reached out.
Her hand found his.
She tightened her grip instinctively, refusing to let go.
Ron froze.
Then, slowly, he laced his fingers with hers.
She slept peacefully after that.
In the morning, she woke smiling.
"I had a nice dream," she whispered to her child. "Your father stayed. With me all night and looked after me."
Ron stood invisible at the doorway.
And stayed anyway.