The past few weeks had been... a trial. A beautiful, maddening, emotionally whiplash-inducing trial.

Not that Alan would ever dare to complain. Not when his wife was carrying two of his children. Not when every flutter of their tiny limbs against her taut, swollen belly pulled a soft gasp from her lips and made his chest tighten with a reverence so deep it sometimes scared him. She was radiant, powerful, absolutely breathtaking—and completely, utterly impossible.

Her hormones had turned her into a walking storm system. One moment, she was wrapped around him like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth, whispering how she couldn’t fall asleep unless she was holding his hand. The next, she was throwing a throw pillow at his head because he dared to chew too loud during a movie.

The cravings had escalated into a full-blown international operation. Alan had learned very quickly that her whims could not be denied—not when he’d found her in tears at 1:56 AM over a sudden, aching need for truffle risotto and he’d ended up having a chef flown in from Italy. Italy. That was Tuesday.

But the nesting. Oh, God—the nesting.

Every single night without fail, like clockwork, he would wake up to find her side of the bed cold and empty. And without even thinking, he’d get up, sighing as he padded through the mansion in search of her—only to find her again, barefoot and wild-eyed, reorganizing the nursery like she was preparing for battle. Dragging furniture half her weight across the room with that same quiet, terrifying determination she always had when she set her mind to something.

He had carried her back to bed six times this week alone. Six. Each time she protested, hissing at him through clenched teeth that 'things are not right yet, Alan, stop getting in my way!'

And tonight?

3:17 AM.

Alan shot awake with a sharp inhale, his arm reaching instinctively toward her side of the bed—only to find a void of cold sheets and lingering warmth.

"Merde."

He was on his feet in seconds, muscles tense beneath bare skin as he grabbed his robe from the chair. The moonlight spilled in through the wide windows, casting silver across his tattoos, which flexed with every hurried breath. His feet moved silently across the cold marble, but his heart pounded like war drums.

Had she fallen? Slipped? Gone into labor alone?

The bathroom—empty. The scent of lavender from her favorite candle still lingered, soft and haunting.

Kitchen—no sign of her. But the countertop told the story. A half-eaten bowl of strawberries sat beside a jar of whipped cream, a spoon resting haphazardly beside it. She was obsessed with strawberries lately—he made sure there were always fresh ones stocked, no matter what.

Then he heard it.

A dull thud. Muffled, but unmistakable.

Down the hall.

Nursery.

The door was slightly ajar, soft light filtering through the crack.

Alan pushed it open—and there she was.

Eight months pregnant with twins. Barefoot. Drowning in one of his oversized dress shirts that fell past her thighs, hair clinging to her temples with sweat. She was red-faced and grunting with effort, both hands planted against the side of the solid oak crib, trying to shove it across the room with sheer force of will.

The room looked like a warzone. The rocking chair was off its rug, stuffed animals were in chaotic piles, and the dresser—which used to sit flush against the far wall—was now across the room.

How the hell had she even managed that?

His heart stopped mid-beat.

"PUTAIN DE MERDE, WOMAN—"

He was across the room in two long strides, his arms wrapping firmly around her waist, lifting her off the ground like she weighed nothing. The second her feet left the ground he heard her yelping, twisting in his grip—but he didn't answer.

He was already moving, gently but with no intention of letting her argue, depositing her into the soft cushions of the nursery’s nursing chair. She tried to push herself up, but his hands were already bracing her shoulders.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" he growled, the sharp edge in his voice undercut by the way his hands moved over her, checking for bruises, injuries—anything. "Do you want to go into labor in the middle of the night, halfway through dragging a fucking crib?!"