He didn't mean to hover.
It just… happened.
The moment they stepped into the crowded hall, every instinct inside him sharpened like claws flexing for balance. Voices, scents, footsteps—too many, too close. He didn't like it. Not with her carrying their child. Not with strangers pushing through the space like they had a right to breathe the same air she did.
His body moved before thought even caught up.
He stepped forward, shoulders squared, stance wide.
His gaze swept across every unfamiliar face, scanning, evaluating.
A low heat rolled under his skin—his panther close, restless.
Someone walked a little too near.
His jaw tightened. His tail, half-shifted, flickered into existence for a moment, twitching sharply before fading back.
A warning, even if no one could see it.
He stood between her and them, blocking, shielding, absorbing attention so she wouldn't have to.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Her hand touched his back, light as a leaf.
"I'm fine," she whispered.
He didn't answer.
Fine wasn't enough.
Safe—that was what mattered.
He stayed there until the last stranger passed, until the hallway cleared, until his heartbeat slowed. Only then did he breathe properly again.
When they finally returned home, she exhaled in relief and sank onto the couch. He stood still for a moment, watching her—his heart, his mate, his reason. His shoulders finally loosened.
He padded closer, slower now.
Careful.
Soft.
His head dipped, almost without his permission.
Just a little. Just enough to let her fingers reach.
He wasn't begging.
He didn't beg.
He just… offered.
Her hand brushed through his hair.
Warm. Gentle.
He leaned into it before he could stop himself, eyes half-closing as electricity traveled down his spine.
His panther purred silently inside.
Finally.
She giggled. "You act like a big cat."
He didn't deny it.
He nudged her palm again, subtly this time, as if pretending it was an accident. Her fingers curled behind his ear, and a low rumble vibrated in his chest—too soft to be a purr, but close.
He sat beside her, touching but not heavy, his arm resting along the back of the couch.
Her scent wrapped around him.
Home.
Then she shifted, guiding his hand toward her stomach.
"Listen," she whispered.
He froze.
His heart stopped entirely as he pressed his ear against her belly.
Warm.
Alive.
He waited—breath held—until he heard it.
A faint movement. A tiny flutter.
The smallest, softest rhythm of life.
His throat tightened.
A sound escaped him—half exhale, half a choked laugh.
He pressed both arms around her waist, holding her carefully, almost reverently, as if afraid she might dissolve if he embraced her too hard.
"That's our cub," he murmured, voice rough with wonder.
She stroked his hair again.
He melted into her touch without shame now.
And inside him, the panther purred—deep, strong, protective—vibrating through his chest as he held them both.
...
The soft clatter of plates in the kitchen caught his attention before he even opened his eyes. His ears twitched—subtle, almost hidden, but alert nonetheless. The scent that floated through the villa was unfamiliar at first, sharp and spicy, and then… a tinge of something that made his chest tighten.
He lifted himself slightly from the couch, where he had been watching her sleep curled beneath the blankets. She was up, moving carefully in the kitchen, her hair falling loose around her shoulders, eyes bright with the flush of morning light. And she was… cooking.
The smell reached him, and his ears perked up fully, shifting almost without thought. His panther instincts hummed beneath his skin. That smell—the sharp tang of garlic and herbs—was his favorite.
Her eyes caught his in the doorway, and she smiled shyly, holding up a small dish.
"You like this, don't you?" she asked softly, her hand hovering near the plate as if unsure.
He stepped closer, muscles taut but relaxed, human form now, yet his tail—a memory of his other shape—twitched under the blankets. "I do," he admitted, voice low. His gaze softened. "But… don't think you can spoil me too much."
She laughed, the sound light and easy, and the movement of her hands, the careful way she placed the food on the table, made him almost forget to breathe. Almost.
"Cravings?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, ears flicking as if testing her.
"Maybe," she said, biting her lip. "I… I wanted to try this. And I thought… maybe you'd like it too."
Instinctively, he moved closer, leaning over her hand as she reached for the plate. He could feel the warmth of her skin, the steady beat of her heart against his chest. A low rumble escaped him, subtle but vibrating through her fingers. She froze for a second, then smiled wider, eyes sparkling with amusement.
"You're… purring," she said softly.
"I… am," he admitted, ashamed and proud at the same time. His instincts were alive, the beast beneath the human carefully controlling itself, yet unable to resist the simple, domestic intimacy of her presence.
As she set the plate in front of him, she peeked at him curiously. "Do you like it? Really?"
"Yes," he said, leaning back slightly but keeping one hand lightly on hers. "And… it's nice… seeing you enjoy it too."
She tilted her head, watching him with a small, teasing smile. "So… my cravings make you happy?"
He growled softly—not threatening, not harsh, just a gentle, amused sound. "Perhaps. And maybe it makes me more aware… of every little thing you want. Every need. Every movement. Every bite."
She laughed again, and the sound, the warmth of the sun, and the smell of food made something shift in him. Protectiveness softened into something gentler: admiration, affection, longing. He wanted to share this moment, the small, quiet joys, with her forever.
And in that kitchen, with her beside him, he realized just how intertwined they already were: her cravings revealing his favorites, her presence softening the beast inside him, and the tiny life growing between them binding them together in ways he had only begun to understand.