173. Echo

173. Echo
Nicholaus stands slowly, one hand braced along my belly as though he can steady the world simply by keeping contact with it. The baby shifts again, gently this time, responding to him. His thumb traces a slow arc beneath the place where the movement settles.
“They're listening to you,” I whisper.
He lifts his gaze to mine, and the softness there could bring me to my knees. “I hope so,” he says softly. “I hope they've been listening and they've all the amazing things their mother has done. I hope they heard how she carried them through the turning. I hope they've heard all the sweet lullabies you've been singing, and all the words of encouragement to come into this world strong and healthy.” His voice falters for half a breath before he catches it. “You’re already their miracle.”
I don’t have words for that. So I reach for his hand instead. He threads our fingers together and gives a gentle tug, guiding me out of the nursery and back through the doorway that now connects our rooms. The firelight from our chamber spills softly into the corridor, warm and steady, determined to chase away every shadow tonight.
“Come, my loves,” he says quietly. “You need to rest. This might be the last quiet night we have before they decide they’re ready.”
My steps are slow, not from weakness but from the heaviness that has settled deep in my body. My magic hums low, a comforting weight beneath my skin, but even it feels quiet, as though conserving itself or preparing for what will come. Inside, the chamber feels different; the air has softened and thickened with warmth. The fire crackles low in the hearth. Someone turned down the bed and lit a few candles near the far wall, their flames small and steady, spilling gold across the rug. Nicholaus doesn’t release my hand until I reach the edge of the bed. Then he bends slightly, fingertips brushing my cheek.
“Sit,” he murmurs.
I lower myself onto the mattress carefully, easing back until the pillows cradle my spine. The simple act of reclining makes my breath hitch, not from pain, but from the subtle pressure blooming low in my belly. Nicholaus notices, he always notices.
“Was that—”
“A tightening,” I murmur. “It's not painful yet.”
His breath stills in his chest. “How long?”
“Just now.” I exhale slowly. “It might not be anything yet, or it may be the beginning.”
He kneels before me, both hands lifting to rest over the curve of my stomach, palms wide and warm.
“If it is the beginning,” he whispers, “then we’re ready. I'm right here.”
His hands move in slow circles, grounding me with their warmth. I cover them with my own, letting the bond open gently between us. The baby shifts again beneath our palms. It feels lower this time, closer. Nicholaus’s breath leaves him in one quiet, reverent sound. Something that might be awe, fear, or both.
“We’ll meet them soon,” he whispers.
I swallow around the thickness in my throat. “I know.”
He leans forward, pressing his forehead to my belly. “You take your time, little one,” he murmurs softly. “But know your mother and I are waiting.”
My heartbeat stutters. I reach down and slide my fingers into his hair.
“I don’t want to sleep yet,” I whisper. “Not tonight. I want to remember this.”
He lifts his head slowly, eyes meeting mine. “Then I’ll stay awake with you.”

He moves to sit beside me on the bed, close enough that his thigh brushes mine. His arm slips around my shoulders, pulling me gently against his chest. The scent of him surrounds me, warm pine, iron, the faint sweetness of the wash oils he uses.
“I used to fear nights like this,” he admits quietly. “The quiet ones. The ones before change. I always thought something would come for me in the silence.”
I rest my head against his shoulder. “And now?”
His arm tightens around me.
“Now I welcome it,” he says. Now that you are here, and they’re here. This silence no longer feels like waiting for loss, it feels like waiting for life.”
My chest tightens, full and aching in the best way.
“You’re going to be a good father,” I whisper.
He turns his head, brushing a kiss into my hair. “Only because of the mother they’ll have.”
The next tightening comes softer, like the brush of a wave rolling up a shore before receding again. My breath catches at the mildly painful reminder that things are changing. Nicholaus feels it through the bond and shifts so he can cup my cheek.
“You alright?”
I nod. “Just… aware.”
His brows lower in a tender crease. “Do you need anything? ”
He doesn't wait for me to answer; he's already moving to sit behind me, running warm hands up and down my back. We sit like that for a long time, wrapped in firelight, wrapped in quiet, wrapped in the last unbroken moment before everything changes. His thumb strokes the back of my hand. My head rests over his heartbeat. The baby moves once more, a slow press beneath my ribs, and we both exhale softly.
“Nicholaus?” I whisper.
“Mm?”
“Stay close tonight.”
He answers me by pulling me fully into his arms, arranging us so my back rests against his chest, his hand covering my stomach, his breath warm against my neck.
“I won’t leave,” he murmurs. “Not for anything.”
The fire burns low, and the room settles, but there is no denying what is happening here and now. The baby is preparing to come into this world. We're going to be parents. Nicholaus’s thumb traces a slow circle beneath my navel, grounding me as another faint tightening rolls through my belly, stronger, more certain. He feels it too. His breath stills against my skin.
“Rest while you can,” he whispers.
I nod, though sleep feels impossible. The night holds its breath around us, and somewhere deep inside, our child answers.