Rian's POV
Luca's six months pregnant, and my protective instincts are insane.
"I'm going to the art school," he announces.
"I'll drive you."
"It's two blocks."
"You're six months pregnant. I'm driving you." No negotiation.
He sighs but doesn't argue. He's learned I'm impossible when it comes to his safety.
At the school, I hover. Can't help it. He's carrying our son—precious cargo.
"Rian, I'm teaching children, not fighting wars." He's patient but exasperated.
"I know. Just—" I pull him close carefully. "Can't turn it off. The need to protect you both."
"I know." He kisses my jaw. "But you have to trust me. I'm capable."
"I trust you. Don't trust the world." I rest my hand on his prominent bump. "Too many things could go wrong."
"Nothing will go wrong. Baby and I are fine." He takes my hand. "Now go. Alpha duties. I'll call if I need you."
I force myself to leave. But through the bond, I monitor him constantly. His emotions, his physical state, everything.
Clingy Alpha, he sends, amused.
Protective Alpha, I correct. There's a difference.
Not much of one.
That evening, I find him exhausted, feet swollen.
"Told you to rest," I scold gently, lifting him to the couch.
"Had to finish teaching."
"Your health is more important." I massage his feet, and he groans in relief.
"That's amazing. Don't stop."
"Never." I work his sore muscles carefully. "You push too hard."
"I'm pregnant, not broken."
"You're carrying our son. That's hard work. You need rest." I kiss his ankle. "Please? For me? Slow down?"
His expression softens. "You're really worried."
"Constantly. What if something happens? What if I'm not there—"
"Nothing will happen. We're fine." He pulls me up, into his arms. "I promise, Rian. We're okay."
I bury my face in his neck, breathing him in. "Can't lose you. Either of you."
"You won't." His hand finds mine, placing it on his bump. Our son kicks vigorously. "Feel that? He's strong. Healthy. We're both fine."
The kicks under my palm calm me slightly. "Okay. But you're still slowing down."
"Deal. If you stop hovering constantly."
"Can't promise that."
He laughs. "At least you're honest."
That night, I'm extra gentle. My hands worship his changing body—swollen, stretched, beautiful.
"You're gorgeous," I murmur, kissing his rounded stomach.
"I'm huge."
"You're perfect. Carrying our son. Nothing is more beautiful."
I make love to him slowly, carefully, showing him he's still desired. Still wanted. Still everything.
"Love you," he gasps.
"Love you both," I respond, moving gently. "So much."
Later, wrapped together, our son kicking between us, everything feels right.
"Three more months," Luca says.
"Three months until we meet our son."
"Scared?"
"Terrified. But ready." I kiss his forehead.