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 room was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the moon streaming through the window. He watched her breathing, steady, even, fragile in a way that made the protective instinct in him flare. Every time she shifted, a little sigh escaped her lips, and he felt the need to be closer.
He shifted lightly, letting his panther form rise first in memory, then allowed his human body to curl naturally against her. His arms wrapped around her waist, but it wasn't tight—it was instinct, a quiet claim, a subtle way to keep her safe. Her head rested near his chest, and he could feel the soft rise and fall of her breath. He inhaled her scent, a mix of the sanctuary and something uniquely hers, and it made his tail flick under the sheets in contentment.
Instinctively, he drew his legs closer, curling like a cat would when protecting its own. The warmth between them was reassuring, his body a barrier to the rest of the world. He could feel the gentle flutter of their unborn child beneath her stomach, and something deep inside him purred with the promise of protection. He lowered his face to her shoulder, brushing against her hair, just enough to mark, just enough to remind her, in his way, that he was here, that she was his.
Even in this quiet, domestic moment, he remained alert. Every sound outside the room was cataloged and assessed: a floorboard creak, the faint rustle of leaves in the garden, the distant murmur of servants. His ears would have twitched in his beast form, his muscles coiled to spring, yet here, curled against her, he allowed himself this small indulgence—this closeness.
Her hand shifted slightly, brushing against his chest. He tensed for a heartbeat, then relaxed, letting her movements guide him. He leaned his head into her palm, quietly hoping for that gentle touch, subtle but grounding. She murmured something in her sleep, half a word, half a sigh, and he let out a quiet exhale, a cat-like vibration from deep in his chest.
Hours passed in silence. He never let go, curling a little more as she shifted, adjusting, protecting. This was his territory now, and she was at the center of it, unaware of just how completely he had claimed this moment, this night, this life they were beginning to share.
Even as sleep tugged at him, he stayed vigilant. A twitch of his ears, a subtle tightening of his grip, a low hum from his chest—he was both human and beast, protector and partner, and tonight, he would not leave her side.
...
He woke before her, as always, attuned to her presence even in the quiet dark. The first rays of sun spilled through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold, and he watched her chest rise and fall with the slow rhythm of sleep. A faint smile tugged at his lips—she looked so small, so vulnerable, so entirely his.
Even fully human, he felt the faint hum of his beast form beneath his skin, a coiled energy that had softened only because she was here, because she was safe, because she was his. He shifted slightly, careful not to wake her, and let his hand drift to her hair, brushing it back from her face. Her fingers twitched in the pillow, half-dreaming, and he let out a quiet, almost imperceptible purr in his throat.
The baby moved beneath her, a small flutter that made him freeze for a heartbeat. He lowered his face to her stomach, feeling the tiny, delicate movements, the heartbeat that mirrored hers in a rhythm he could almost hear in his chest. A protective heat surged through him.
"Good morning," he whispered, low, not expecting a reply. But the way her shoulder lifted slightly under his cheek, the way her hand unconsciously moved toward his, told him she had felt him there.
He carefully moved closer, curling slightly around her again. His arm went across her waist, hand resting lightly on her belly. It was instinct, a silent promise: no one would touch her, no harm would come near them, and he would always be here, strong and unwavering.
When she stirred fully, blinking sleep from her eyes, he let his human expression soften. There was no harshness in his gaze, no warning—just awe and gentle pride. Her smile, slow and sleepy, made something inside him loosen, a soft heat spreading from chest to fingertips.
"You… feel it too, don't you?" he asked quietly, his voice still husky with sleep.
She nodded, hand reaching instinctively to rest over his, fingers brushing his. He felt her warmth, and with it, a sense of wonder he rarely let himself admit: this child, this tiny life, was theirs. And he would guard it, and her, with everything inside him.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, letting the world wait outside. No words were needed. Just the quiet, shared connection: human and beast, protector and mate, parent and child-to-be.
And in that still, golden morning, he realized something else too—there was a softness in him, a gentleness he had never allowed anyone to see, a side that only she would coax out.