The moment they landed back home, the contrast hit like a slap to the face—jarring, surreal, almost laughable in its dissonance. The house greeted them with gentle warmth, the familiar scent of lavender blooming in the air like a welcome-home kiss, soft candlelight flickering lazily against cream-colored walls, and the faint, comforting crackle of the fireplace murmuring in the distance.
Everything was calm. Peaceful. Intact. As if the night hadn't just been soaked in blood. As if they hadn't left behind a crime scene so violent the walls would remember it. As if they hadn't, mere minutes ago, unmade two human lives with the precision of seasoned executioners and not so much as a second thought.
It was grotesque.
It was beautiful.
It was deeply, deeply them.
Luna exhaled, a soft breath that seemed to dissolve into the stillness, then turned to face him with a serenity so complete it was almost unsettling—her expression smooth, untroubled, that same placid grace she wore whether stirring tea or severing arteries. Too serene. Suspiciously serene. Her silver-blue eyes flicked up to meet his, and she shrugged like they'd just returned from a particularly mundane grocery run.
"That was weird," she said simply, voice light as mist.
Theo let out a low huff of breath, one brow arching, the corner of his mouth twitching like he couldn't quite decide whether to smirk or frown. "People don't call this weird, my moon," he murmured, his voice all velvet and dry amusement, one hand curling around her waist, fingers brushing the soft, familiar dip of her hip. "They call this psychotic."
She hummed in reply, utterly unbothered, slipping out of her cloak in a practiced motion and letting it fall over the back of a chair without looking. Her fingers moved without thought, trailing absently down the front of his coat, lingering for the briefest moment over the buttons like she was grounding herself with the feel of him before stepping back with a quiet stretch, arms above her head, spine arching like a cat who hadn't just mutilated a corpse to make a point.
"Well… anyway," she said, with all the gravitas of someone discussing the weather, "it's bedtime reading time."
He blinked. Once. Twice. Slowly.
"Bedtime… reading?" he repeated, voice full of incredulity. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers dragging at his scalp like it might help make sense of her. "Moonbeam, we just—" He broke off, the rest of the sentence clawing its way up his throat and dying there, unable to fully form. His shoulders tensed. He looked at her, really looked at her. "Are you okay? What you did back there—it was…" He hesitated again, searching for a word that didn't feel like betrayal, one that didn't sound like judgment but also didn't pretend it hadn't shaken him, hadn't impressed him. "It was a lot."
She tilted her head, the motion graceful and slow, as if she were listening to something far away—something only she could hear. Her expression didn't shift. No flicker of guilt. No flicker of pride. Just stillness. Measured. Watchful. And then, at last, she spoke, her voice quiet, even, stripped of performance or artifice, so calm it almost hurt.
"I didn't like the way he looked at her," she said.
And there it was.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Just truth. Clean, razor-edged truth.
"And I stabbed the man who wanted to hang you twenty-eight times. How about that?"
The words dropped like a blade into the center of the room, clean and deliberate, slicing through the aftermath of everything else that had come before—cutting deeper, more intimate, more startling than any curse Theo had ever cast.
He stilled.
Everything in him, every humming nerve and jagged thought, went violently, abruptly quiet. His heartbeat, which had only just started to settle from the chaos of Titus's death, faltered mid-beat, staggering against the weight of her voice, her calmness, the sheer insanity of what she had just said. For a moment, his mind refused to register it, spinning in circles like maybe—just maybe—he had misunderstood her.
"…What?"
She took a single step forward, slow and assured, her movements feline in their grace, calculated in the way only Luna could be—like a moon circling closer to a planet just before pulling the tide into something catastrophic. The candlelight danced in her silver-blue eyes, and in it he saw the barest flicker of amusement, of satisfaction, of something possessive and burning and ancient beneath that eternally calm exterior.
"You have no idea what I will do for the people I love," she said, voice low and laced with something terrifyingly tender. "Now you may have a clue."
He stared at her. He gaped at her.
"You—you did?"
Her lips curled in that way they did when she was quietly amused, like his surprise was a particularly charming inside joke. "Obviously."
The disbelief cracked through him in a delayed wave as he stumbled back half a step, dragging a hand down his face, trying to process the serene woman in front of him with the knowledge that she had taken a man apart with her own hands. "You stabbed him… twenty-eight times?"
"I lost count after seventeen, actually," she replied breezily, smoothing the front of her blouse with a casual grace that made his stomach twist. "But yes."
And it should have horrified him.
It should have repulsed him.
But it didn't. Not even close.
Because what twisted in his gut wasn't revulsion. It wasn't dread. It was something darker, something deeper, something far more dangerous than either. It was adoration. Bone-deep, blood-warm, all-consuming adoration. It was the wild, silent worship of a man looking at something divine and mad and his.
His hands flexed at his sides, aching to touch her, to draw her in, to claim whatever savage, beautiful creature was standing in front of him like she'd been carved out of violence and moonlight just for him.
"Why?" he rasped, the word torn from his throat, hoarse with awe.
She blinked once, slowly, like he had just asked the dumbest question in existence.
"Because he tried to take you from me," she said, with the same simple clarity she used when identifying constellations or stating that tea was ready. Her voice dipped lower, the tone silkier now, darker, like honey swirling into poison. Then her hand lifted, fingers ghosting along his jaw with deceptive delicacy, her nails dragging just enough to make him shiver. Her touch was light—almost reverent—but it came with the weight of everything she'd just confessed. "And that is something I will never allow."
Then her voice dropped further, into something possessive, primal, dangerous.
"You are mine, Theodore Atticus Nott. Just as I am yours. Anyone who threatens that—" her lips brushed the shell of his ear, slow and deliberate, "—they die."
His breath caught in his chest like a punch. His eyes fluttered shut as he inhaled deeply, shakily, grounding himself in the scent of her—lavender, smoke, and something iron-sweet beneath it. He pressed his forehead to hers, chest heaving, hands finding her waist and gripping hard, possessive and unrelenting, like she might vanish if he didn't hold on.
"You are absolutely fucking insane," he whispered, voice cracked open at the edges. "Do you know that?"
She smiled.
Gods, that smile. That slow, knowing, utterly wicked smile that had ruined him from the first time she'd aimed it his way. The kind that made the world tilt off its axis.
"I've had excellent company," she replied, not missing a beat.
A ragged, breathless laugh tore from his throat—sharp and reverent and helpless. His hands framed her face in a heartbeat, rough with need, and he kissed her like the world had gone quiet just for them. Hard. Desperate. Devoted. He kissed her like she was the only anchor left holding him in his own skin, like if he let go he'd shatter.
"You are the most terrifying woman in the world," he growled against her mouth, tasting her like a man dying of thirst.
"And you love it," she breathed, shameless, her eyes heavy-lidded and bright with that feral heat that always lingered just beneath her stillness.
His grip on her hips tightened to bruising, dragging her flush against him, needing her closer, needing more.
"I fucking worship it."
Without waiting for permission or breath or the return of reason, he bent and swept her effortlessly into his arms, like a knight rescuing his queen—or perhaps a dragon claiming what was already his—and began striding toward the stairs, kisses already trailing down the pale column of her throat, lips brushing the curve of her jaw, teeth grazing over the quicksilver beat of her pulse.
"Bedtime reading can wait," he muttered, voice hoarse, already lost to her.
She let out a pleased hum, her arms draping lazily over his shoulders, fingers tangling in his hair, her head resting near his temple like a crown.
"I had a feeling you'd say that."
Theo laid her down like something sacred.
Not just careful—but reverent, like she might shatter under his hands even though they both knew she was the dangerous one. His palms smoothed over her hips, the pads of his fingers dragging over fabric and skin like he was relearning her, needing the reassurance that she was real, whole, here.
"You terrify me," he murmured, lips brushing her collarbone, voice hoarse with everything he couldn't quite name. "You absolutely terrify me."
Luna blinked up at him, calm as moonlight. "Good," she whispered, threading her fingers into his hair and guiding him lower, like gravity itself answered to her. "Then you'll never forget."
He kissed her like he wouldn't get another chance—like the world outside that bedroom didn't exist, like the taste of her mouth could wash blood off his hands. His tongue slid past her lips and she sighed into him, arms winding around his neck, legs parting instinctively beneath the slow, deliberate press of his body.
His hands moved like worship, like prayer—palming the swell of her thighs, tracing the edge of her ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts until she arched into his touch, breath hitching. He tugged at the hem of her blouse, dragging it upward inch by agonizing inch until her skin was bare to the candlelight.
Luna just watched him, breathing slow, serene even as his mouth found the curve of her breast and closed around it, sucking gently until her fingers tightened in his hair. "Theo…"
"Say it again," he rasped, voice fraying at the edges. "Say my name like that."
She smiled, soft and wicked, and whispered it again—slower this time. Like a spell.
He groaned low in his throat, one hand sliding between her legs, cupping her through her knickers, pressing just enough to make her hips roll against him. "Still so wet for me," he murmured, dragging the fabric aside with aching slowness, his fingers finally finding her heat. "You really are mine."
Luna moaned, quiet but breathless, her body starting to move under him like water, fluid and hungry. "Yes," she whispered, nails biting into his shoulder blades. "Always yours."
And then the reverence cracked.
Because he couldn't hold back anymore—not when she was already shaking under his touch, not when her eyes burned with the kind of love that looked like madness. He kissed down her stomach, eyes locked on hers the whole way, and settled between her legs like a man about to meet his maker.
"You killed for me," he whispered, breath ghosting over her slick skin. "Let me worship you for it."
Then he dipped his head—and tasted her.
Theo moaned low against her, the sound vibrating through her center like a spell—dark, ancient, and entirely hers. His tongue licked a long, deliberate stripe up her folds, slow enough to make her gasp, then flattened to suck gently on her clit until her hips twitched beneath his grip.
"Still with me, moonbeam?" he murmured, lifting his head just enough to speak, lips already slick with her. His voice was sinful, coaxing. "Or have I already wrecked you?"
Luna's head lolled against the pillows, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed. Her breath was shallow, but her smile—Gods, that smile—was sharp enough to draw blood. "Not even close."
Theo grinned like she'd just thrown down a gauntlet.
"Good."
Then he devoured her.
There was no rush, no frenzy—just calculated, merciless attention. His tongue worked her slowly, methodically, drawing soft moans and sharp gasps with every pass. He circled her clit in tight, perfect spirals, pausing only to suck gently until her thighs trembled against his shoulders. His fingers dug into her hips to hold her steady, his whole body tense with restraint as he focused all of himself on her pleasure.
And she gave it to him—all of it. The little sounds she made, the way she whispered his name like it was a prayer between broken breaths, the way her hands fisted in the sheets when his tongue dipped lower, teasing her entrance before slipping inside.
She whimpered, high and needy. "Theo—please, please don't stop—"
He didn't.
He groaned again, savoring the taste of her like he'd been starved for it. His fingers replaced his tongue, slipping inside her with practiced ease, curling just right while he sucked her clit with a slow, aching rhythm that had her writhing beneath him.
Her hips lifted to meet every thrust of his hand, and her moans turned into whimpers, then into sobs. She was unraveling, coming apart beneath the weight of his mouth and fingers and voice.
"That's it, moon," he breathed against her, voice thick and hoarse. "Come for me. Right here. Let me feel you fall apart."
And Luna did—beautifully.
Her whole body arched, hands clawing for purchase as pleasure ripped through her like a wave too big to fight. She cried out his name, sharp and breathless, her thighs clamping around his head as he coaxed her through every last pulse of it, never once letting up, never once breaking eye contact as she shattered in his hands.
By the time her body stilled, she was trembling all over—flushed, glowing, undone.
Theo pressed a final kiss to her swollen clit, then another to the inside of her thigh, murmuring praise against her skin. "So good," he whispered. "So perfect. So mine."
When he finally rose, his eyes were dark with need, but his touch was tender as he kissed her lips—slow, thorough, letting her taste herself on his tongue.
"You're not done yet," she whispered, breath still shaky.
He smirked, lips ghosting over hers.
"Not even close."
Luna pushed Theo back onto the bed before he could even finish that wicked smirk. She moved with the same eerie grace she used when casting ancient spells or slicing through someone's jugular—calm, precise, and utterly certain. But this time, her magic was focused solely on him.
He tried to speak, but she was already crawling over his body, straddling his thighs as her fingers made quick work of his belt. The clink of the buckle was followed by the slow drag of fabric as she freed him—hard, thick, and already leaking at the tip.
She paused. Looked at him.
Theo had seen her after a kill—unflinching, unbothered. He had seen her surrounded by blood, wielding a blade like it was an extension of her soul. But nothing compared to the quiet, simmering hunger in her eyes now. Nothing.
"You did such a good job, my love," she whispered, voice like warm silk as her hand wrapped around his length. "Now it's my turn."
Theo's breath hitched. His hands flexed in the sheets.
Then Luna lowered her head.
The first lick was slow. A single stroke of her tongue from the base to the tip, deliberate and reverent, like she was tasting something sacred. Theo swore under his breath, his hips twitching as she did it again—then again, until his cock was slick with her spit and he was gripping the sheets like they were the only things anchoring him to earth.
Then she took him into her mouth.
Not all at once. Not yet. She eased him in inch by inch, her lips wrapping around him in a tight, hot seal that made him groan—loud. Her eyes stayed locked on his, watching the way he came undone under her mouth like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
"Fuck—Luna—" he gasped, head falling back, throat working around a groan. "You're gonna ruin me."
She hummed, sending vibrations through him that nearly made his vision blur. Then she took more of him, her tongue working in slow, practiced swirls, her hand stroking the base in time with every wet, perfect bob of her head.
Theo was panting now, muscles taut with the effort not to lose it too fast, too soon. But she wasn't just giving head—she was worshipping him. Like this was penance. Like this was devotion. Like she needed to taste the violence and the love and the loyalty on his skin.
When she finally swallowed him down fully, her throat tightening around him, he shouted, one hand flying to her hair. He didn't guide her—he wouldn't dare. But his grip tightened as he fought to hold on, chest heaving, legs shaking.
Luna pulled off with a soft pop, hand still stroking him slow and steady, and looked up at him through her lashes. Her lips were swollen, spit-slick, glowing in the firelight.
"You taste like power," she whispered. "Like fire and salt and fury."
Theo groaned, grabbing her and hauling her up into a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and gratitude. His cock pressed between them, still achingly hard.
"Get on top," he rasped. "Ride me, love. I need to feel you now."
She didn't answer with words—she didn't need to.
Luna climbed into his lap with that same haunted grace, hips rolling as she sank down onto him in one slow, shattering motion. Her breath hitched. His hiss tore through the room like a whip. For one suspended heartbeat, neither of them moved—just breathing, just feeling, locked together in heat and tension so thick it could split iron.
Then something in them snapped.
Theo's hands gripped her hips like vices, bruising and possessive, as he slammed up into her with a force that had her head flying back, a ragged cry ripping from her throat. She clawed at his shoulders, nails dragging down his back as she rode him like a storm—wild, relentless, chaotic. There was no grace here, no softness—just raw, brutal need sharpened by bloodlust and devotion.
"You were made for this," he growled, fucking up into her so hard the headboard cracked against the wall. "Made for me."
Luna laughed—laughed—a low, wicked sound that dripped down his spine like molten sin. "Of course I was," she hissed, grinding down on him, her thighs shaking. "You think I'd belong to anyone else?"
Theo lost it.
He grabbed her by the throat—not tight, just enough to claim, to control—and drove into her with savage rhythm, his other hand tangled in her hair as he bit down on the soft place where her neck met her shoulder. Luna's moans were filthy, breathless and unhinged, like she was unraveling in time with his thrusts, like she'd light the world on fire just to feel him like this again.
"You love this," he spat, lips dragging down her jaw. "Being fucked raw with blood still under your nails."
Her eyes fluttered, lips parted in some silent, obscene prayer. "Yes—yes—Theo, more, don't stop—"
He didn't.
He couldn't.
Their bodies moved like weapons drawn and used, like war and worship twisted into one seamless, brutal rhythm. Skin slapped, bedframe groaned, and the air filled with the kind of sounds that only happened when love and destruction blurred into one.
When she shattered around him, it was violent—beautifully so—her body locking down on him like a vice, cries turning near-animal as pleasure tore through her like a curse undone. Theo followed with a guttural growl, spilling into her so deep and hard it felt like punishment and praise all at once.
They didn't move for a long time. Just breathed. Just held. Covered in sweat and bite marks and echoes of sin.
Eventually, Luna's voice broke the silence.
"Next time," she said dreamily, still catching her breath, "we should kill someone together again. I forgot how good it makes the sex."
Theo laughed—low, rough, already half-hard again where he still pulsed inside her.
"Careful, Moonbeam," he muttered, dragging his lips up her throat, "or I'll make it a habit."
Luna was still trembling in his lap when Theo shifted beneath her, his hands roaming down her back—slow now, reverent, but barely concealing the coiled tension beneath his skin. His lips ghosted over her jaw, soft as breath, but the way he gripped her thighs told a different story: one of need not yet sated. One of a man who had tasted madness and found it sweet.
"You thought we were done?" he murmured against her skin, voice a deep rasp that made her spine arch. "Oh, Moon. We're just getting started."
Before she could reply, he lifted her off him—effortless, commanding—and laid her flat on the bed, chest rising and falling like she'd run through a battlefield and survived only to be claimed by something just as dangerous.
Theo loomed above her, eyes dark, hair mussed, his body a perfect shadow carved in hunger. He didn't ask. He took. One knee between her legs, he dragged her hips to the edge of the bed and pushed her thighs apart with greedy, unrelenting hands.
"Look at you," he growled, running his fingers along her inner thigh, slow and taunting. "Open for me like this. Always so ready. So fucking mine."
Luna gasped as his fingers slipped between her folds again, but he didn't give her the rhythm she craved—he teased, slow circles just barely grazing where she needed him most, making her writhe.
"Please," she whispered, voice raw. "Theo…"
He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. "No. You don't get it easy this time. You want to be ruined again, love? Then you're going to beg."
And gods, she did. Not in pretty, polite whispers—but breathless, frantic pleading. For more. For harder. For him. She reached for him like she'd die without it, nails clawing at his back as if anchoring herself to reality. And the moment he slid back into her, he did it in one deep, brutal thrust that made her scream.
Theo snapped. Hips slamming into hers with punishing force, one hand wrapped around her throat—not tight, just enough to remind her she was his—and the other gripping her hip like he was carving his name into her bones.
"You think anyone else gets to see you like this?" he snarled, teeth dragging over her collarbone. "They don't. No one touches you. No one hears you like this. You're mine, Luna. Mine to fuck. Mine to love. Mine to destroy if I wanted to—and I won't, because I'd burn the world before I let it break you."
She was gasping now, legs trembling around him, overwhelmed by the intensity—the fury of his love, the worship in his roughness. He bent lower, forehead pressing to hers, and slowed just enough to make her feel every inch of him, drawing out the pleasure like a punishment.
"You want to come again?" he breathed, voice shaking. "Come with me this time. Come while I'm inside you. Look at me while you do it."
And when she did—writhing, clenching, her mouth forming his name in a ragged sob—he followed with a broken, reverent growl, spilling into her like he was offering her the last thing he had left.
They didn't speak for a long time. Just laid there, tangled and breathless, staring at the ceiling like they'd cracked the sky open and dared it to fall.
Then Luna whispered, "I think we're very good at making murder look like foreplay."
Theo laughed, hoarse and wrecked. "You make everything look like foreplay, love."
The room was quiet now. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after a storm, where everything feels fragile and sacred—like even the walls are holding their breath.
Theo lay on his back, chest still heaving, one arm flung over his face as if trying to shield himself from the weight of what had just passed between them. Luna curled beside him, head on his chest, fingers tracing lazy, tender circles over the ink on his skin.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. They didn't need to. The silence wasn't empty—it was full. Of everything they'd done. Everything they were still feeling. Everything they couldn't say without unraveling.
Theo's fingers finally moved, brushing through her tangled hair, slow and trembling. "Did we go too far?"
Luna didn't lift her head. Just shook it, the movement soft, deliberate, her voice a murmur against his heart. "No. We went exactly far enough."
He exhaled shakily, the sound cracked around the edges. "I almost lost it, Moon. Back there. I watched you… watched what you did for our daughter. For me. I didn't know if I wanted to worship you or fall apart at your feet."
Luna tilted her head to look at him, moonlight catching in her eyes, turning them liquid and vast. "You can do both."
His laugh was broken, a ghost of a sound. "I think I already have."
She pushed herself up on one elbow and looked down at him, studying his face like she was memorizing it for the thousandth time. "I meant what I said, Theo. About him. About anyone who tries to take what's ours. I'm not afraid of what that makes me. You shouldn't be either."
"I'm not afraid of you," he said, catching her hand and pressing it to his chest. "I'm afraid of losing you. Or worse—of not being worthy of you."
Her face softened, a breath of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "You're the only one who ever saw me for exactly who I am and loved me anyway. You think I'm letting that go? You think I'd bleed the world dry and then flinch at staying with you?"
He looked like she'd hit him. Not hard—no, it was gentler than that. Like a truth that was too big to carry alone had finally been handed back to him.
"I love you," he said, not because it was expected, but because it felt like confession. Like prayer.
Luna kissed his sternum. Once. Soft and slow. "I know. I've always known."
The quiet that followed was different. Not the stunned silence of bloodlust or aftermath—but peace. Real, earned peace. And when he pulled the blanket over them and wrapped her tightly in his arms, it wasn't about claiming or possessing.
It was about keeping.
Because love this wild didn't fade.
It just changed shape. Like moonlight on water.
~~~~~~
The moon was still high when Luna stepped barefoot into the outer paddock, a deep hush settled over the orchard. Morning had not yet claimed the land, but the stars were already beginning to fade, blinking sleepily through the lavender haze of dawn. She wore a simple linen shift, threadbare and soft, with one of Theo's cardigans thrown around her shoulders, sleeves too long, dragging near the cuffs. The grass was cool and wet beneath her feet, kissed with dew, and the breeze smelled of pine, distant river fog, and animal fur.
She didn't come out here often before sunrise. Not unless something called her.
In her hands was a carved wooden bowl filled with fermented fruit and a handful of honeyed oats, a strange and particular mix that only her mooncalf would eat. She hummed quietly as she walked, not to fill the silence, but to walk beside it. Notes low and strange, like water trickling through old stone.
The mooncalf was already waiting, blinking up at her with wide, luminous eyes. Behind him, nestled together beneath the trees, were the rest of her odd little flock. The capybaras stretched and yawned as one, their thick bodies lolling over one another like lazy cousins at a family reunion. The Thestrals flicked their wings in the shadows, unbothered. Her lone hippogriff, regal and watchful, lifted its head in a slow, assessing arc. The axolotls—who should not have been out of their tank—wriggled in a puddle of conjured water, their gills fluttering as they stared at her like pink-cheeked gods. And the pixies? The pixies had already begun stealing oats from her bowl, buzzing like drunken wasps and shrieking with delight.
Luna smiled as she lowered the bowl. "Greedy," she murmured, brushing them gently away. "That's for him, not you."
But she had barely taken another step when it hit her—a sharp, sour wave of nausea that slammed into her like a rogue current. The bowl clattered to the ground. She doubled over, one arm clutching her belly, the other gripping a nearby fence post. Her stomach lurched, and before she could think or breathe or prepare, she was sick in the grass.
Silence.
The kind of silence that feels like being watched.
When she straightened, slow and shaking, the mooncalf was staring at her with deep, unblinking concern. One of the capybaras waddled over and nosed her leg. The pixies stopped mid-theft, hovering uncertainly in the air like a paused thought. Even the Thestrals looked up.
"It's alright," she said softly, voice hoarse. "Just a moment. I'm alright."
She pressed a hand to her mouth, breathing shallowly. Then, without quite knowing why, she sat down in the wet grass, cradled her knees, and let the stillness wrap around her like an old shawl.
The possibility bloomed so gently in her mind it felt like a memory. A slow knowing. A truth she hadn't yet dared to name. But now that it was here, she couldn't unfeel it.
She closed her eyes.
She let herself imagine it. Just for a breath. Just for a heartbeat.
Another child.
Not just the wild chaos of the idea, but the weight of it. The joy and terror of doing it again. Of loving something so small, so violently. Of late nights and lullabies and Theo stumbling half-asleep through bottle warmings and midnight lullabies. Of Lysander meeting a sibling. Of her body opening again, breaking again, healing again.
She looked down at her hands in her lap. They didn't tremble.
The capybara had not moved. It sat beside her now, leaning against her like an oversized hot water bottle. The mooncalf rested its heavy head against her knee. The pixies resumed their gentle buzzing, orbiting lazily above her like stars.
"I haven't told him yet," she whispered to the animal crowd. "I'm not ready."
One of the axolotls blinked.
"I don't know how he'll take it," she admitted. "We're happy. Things are... whole."
And then, quieter, more to herself than to any of them, "What if I ruin it?"
The Thestrals twitched their wings. The mooncalf huffed.
"I know," she murmured, resting her chin against her knee. "That's not how love works. But it's still what I'm afraid of."
The first rays of morning slipped across the orchard, touching the backs of the trees with warm gold. The animals stirred again, shifting in the light. She stayed there a long time, quiet and held, surrounded by odd creatures and the slow unfolding of a truth too new to say aloud.
When the house stirred behind her and the windows lit with candlelight, she rose. Quietly. Carefully. Still not ready to speak it.
But as she walked back toward the house, she pressed one hand to her belly, very gently.
And she smiled.
~~~~~~
The morning sun had only just begun to stream through the gauzy curtains when Luna crouched beside the doorframe, her silvery-blue eyes lit with mischief and something delightfully conspiratorial. She pressed a finger to her lips and whispered, her voice thick with excitement, "Shh, loves. Remember, we're sneaky little mice this morning."
Seline, clutching her beloved unicorn plushie with deadly seriousness, gave a solemn nod like this was the most important mission of her life. Lysander bounced on the balls of his feet, full of chaotic energy, his wild thumbs-up nearly making Luna laugh.
The three of them tiptoed across the floor, each exaggerated step causing a tiny creak as they approached the massive bed where Theo slept on, blissfully unaware of the ambush headed his way. His mouth was slightly parted in sleep, his lashes a dark line against pale skin, one arm flung over the blankets like he hadn't a care in the world.
Luna gave the kids one final nod. Their signal. Rehearsed the night before like it was a military drill and not the cutest birthday ambush in wizarding history.
Then all at once, they let loose.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY DADDY!" they screamed together.
Lysander launched himself onto the bed like a tiny missile, immediately followed by Seline, who tumbled giggling beside him. Theo jolted upright, somewhere between dreaming and being attacked. His arms flailed, his voice hoarse from sleep, tangled in bedsheets and squealing children.
"What—Lys, Selie—Luna?"
His confusion melted almost instantly into a sleepy smile as he was tackled from both sides. Seline climbed up his chest and kissed his nose with all the enthusiasm of a toddler who believed birthdays were national holidays.
"Dadda best," she mumbled, grinning like he hung the stars.
Lysander flopped sideways across his hip, beaming as he thrust a slightly crumpled card into his hands. "Open it! I drew you with a sword and Mama with her wand and Seline's riding a dragon!"
Theo laughed, pulling them close, eyes bright, one hand already smoothing the card while the other wrapped around his wild son. Luna curled into the space beside him, soft and warm and close.
"You lot," Theo mumbled, voice thick with sleep and feeling, "You're the best thing that ever happened to me."
Luna kissed his shoulder and gave him a sleepy smile. "And you, birthday boy, are the only man I've ever met who looks good while being attacked by toddlers."
He let out a snort, pressing a kiss to her temple, already thinking, not for the first time, that this—this messy, loud, beautiful morning—was everything he never knew he wanted.
He kissed them each in turn. Seline's curls, Lysander's flushed cheek, then finally Luna, slow and soft, like a man in no rush at all. He lingered just a breath longer against her lips, pulling back only when she smiled at him like she had a secret tucked behind her teeth.
"Get ready, Sunny," she said, her voice full of love and something just a bit dangerous. Her fingers skimmed the edge of his jaw as she leaned in close. "We made you a special breakfast."
At that, the children bolted from the bed like fireworks, tearing down the hall in a blur of noise and giggles, the sound of their feet echoing all the way to the kitchen.
Theo rubbed a hand down his face and let out a breath, still grinning. "Is it… shit-shit?"
Luna flicked her hair over her shoulder and perched delicately on the edge of the bed like a queen settling on her throne.
"Absolutely. But do act surprised and incredibly grateful. Seline made mud cake. Literal mud, to be clear. And Lysander possibly spit in the batter. But don't worry. I made actual pancakes. Blueberry. With that clover honey you like."
He looked at her then. Really looked. And something twisted deep in his chest. She was just sitting there in the morning light, all soft curves and sleepy eyes, her face open and glowing, and he felt it again—that unbearable, ridiculous love that had nowhere else to go except spill out of him.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "I'm so completely in love with you it hurts."
Her smile didn't falter. If anything, it softened. And then, like she was commenting on the weather, she tilted her head and said, "I want another baby."
Just like that.
No build-up. No dramatic pause. Just a quiet truth laid out between them like an offering. A simple sentence that cracked his world wide open.
He blinked. Once, then again, slower this time, like the world had tilted and he needed a second to catch up. His heart stuttered in his chest. He sat up straighter, every nerve on high alert, his gaze fixed on her with eyes suddenly too full to process what they were seeing.
"Luna…" he breathed, the name falling from his lips like a prayer, like something sacred. "Are you… are you serious?"
She didn't flinch. Didn't smile or tease or soften it. She just looked at him, all calm and sure, the kind of sure that only she could carry so quietly. Her eyes held that particular Luna stillness, the kind that always made him feel like she was half here, half somewhere ancient. She'd already decided. That much was clear. She was only waiting for him to arrive at the same place.
"I want another baby, Theodore," she said again, her voice lower now. Not hesitant, not fragile—just quieter, like she didn't need to convince him. Like the truth had already been spoken and she trusted it would bloom.
The weight of it landed in his chest with impossible gentleness, like snowfall. And he couldn't speak. Couldn't think. All he could do was reach for her.
Before she could say anything else, before logic or reason or the faint sound of syrup being spilled in the kitchen had a chance to return, he pulled her into him. Soft but certain. His hands framed her face as if she were spun from something too fine to exist in the real world. As if she might vanish if he held her wrong.
And then he kissed her.
Not with hunger. Not with heat. But with something far more dangerous—devotion.
It was the kind of kiss that held history and future at once. That said yes without needing to speak. Her hands curled into his chest as she melted against him, breath catching, eyelashes fluttering, every part of her answering him like a chord finally struck in the right key.
And just like that, the rest of the world disappeared.
As a matter of fact, and this was not an exaggeration, the breakfast spread laid out on the table looked like something conjured from a toddler's fever dream, or perhaps from a recipe book written by forest trolls with a personal vendetta against plating. The "cake," if it could even be called that, resembled the aftermath of a mudslide in a garden. It was decorated with what appeared to be flower petals, a few buttons, and what Theo desperately hoped were chocolate chips.
There was a puddle of something near it that might have been syrup or might have been glue. It was impossible to tell. A single pancake sat askew, crumpled and misshapen, and had clearly suffered the touch of too many eager hands. The juice was frothy. Unnaturally so.
The only recognizable item on the table was the stack of blueberry pancakes Luna had made, sitting politely off to the side like a peace offering in the middle of a breakfast battlefield.
Theo, to his credit, didn't flinch. His eyes widened slightly, but his smile didn't falter. It was the kind of expression worn by a man fully in love with his life, even as that life tried to poison him with a mystery beverage at 8 a.m.
He clapped his hands together and let out a gasp of joy that was nothing short of theatrical. His voice lifted with exaggerated delight as he took a reverent step toward the chaos. "Oh, my little loves," he said, drawing out every word, crouching low to meet their beaming faces, "thank you so much. It looks absolutely beautiful. And so very, very... yummy."
Seline, already standing on tiptoe beside the table, bounced with pride. Her curls bobbed as she nodded with the serious joy of a child presenting her life's greatest work. She tapped the edge of the plate with both hands. "Dada! Cake!" she shouted, absolutely thrilled with herself.
"Yes, my princess," Theo said, scooping her into his arms and kissing her cheek. "A beautiful cake. Thank you, my joy. It's perfect. Just like you."
Lysander, not to be outdone, leapt forward with the urgency of a knight defending the realm. "Wait! I get Seli!" he announced, nearly tripping as he dragged her high chair across the floor with the focus of a child on a sacred quest. Theo chuckled softly and reached out just in time to steady the chair before it toppled. He lifted Seline gently into her seat, then ruffled Lysander's hair with a warm, amused smile.
He knelt beside his son, placing a hand on his chest and lowering his voice into that secret tone that always made Lysander's eyes go wide. "Thank you, my brave prince, for this magnificent breakfast. Mummy told me you helped mix the batter and crack the eggs."
Lysander's face lit up so brightly it could have powered the entire kitchen. "And I stirred! And I did sprinkles! And I didn't even eat all of them!" he declared, holding up four fingers for no reason at all.
Theo laughed, pulling him into a hug and kissing the top of his head. "You're amazing, my love. The best big brother. And the best sous-chef a daddy could ask for."
And even though he knew he would need at least a full pot of coffee and possibly a stomach-settling potion before attempting a single bite, Theo sat down at the table like a man about to enjoy a gourmet meal. He picked up his fork with the kind of joy that only comes from being completely and unconditionally loved by the loudest, stickiest, most beautiful parts of his world.
Because this, more than anything, was the real gift.
~~~~~~
After the remains of breakfast had been cleared away—sticky fingers wiped clean, crumbs brushed off little laps, and a comical attempt at a group nap that resulted in more giggles than sleep—their small, chaotic, beloved world settled into that rare, golden lull that only exists in the quiet hush of afternoon.
The sitting room had been transformed into a nest of comfort: layers upon layers of oversized blankets spread across the floor like a patchwork cloud, plush pillows piled high in every corner, the windows thrown open just enough to let in a soft summer breeze that carried the scent of lavender and grass and the faraway hum of birdsong.
Luna laid on her side, her head propped against her palm, a lazy smile playing on her lips as she half-listened to Lysander—who, in his usual breathless enthusiasm, was currently narrating something about dragons, the pugs, and a magical forest they were going to build behind the garden.
He was flopping across the pillows dramatically, waving his arms for emphasis, his curls bouncing with every excited movement. His voice rose and fell like a storyteller who had been doing this for decades, not five short years, and every so often he paused to make sure his mother was still "definitely listening," to which Luna responded with a nod and a warm hum, even though her thoughts had long drifted elsewhere.
Because her attention wasn't on dragons or magical forests or the theoretical pug army Lysander was currently planning to command. Her gaze had found something far more entrancing, far more tender. Just across the room, in the heart of the blanket pile, lay Theo—her Theo—flat on his back, his hands resting behind his head in that casually regal way he always did when he was at peace. Seline was sprawled on his chest, her tiny legs kicking rhythmically, her chubby hands pressed against his collarbones, her silvery-blue eyes locked onto her father's face with total, rapt fascination.
And Theo? He was talking to her.
Not in the usual silly-baby-voice way he used when tickling her belly or coaxing a giggle out of her. No, this was different. His voice was low, slow, measured—soft and raw in a way Luna rarely heard, like each word was a gift meant only for the little girl perched on top of him. He was telling her stories. Not fairytales or nursery rhymes. Not made-up adventures or bedtime fables. He was telling her about himself.
About his childhood.
And Luna couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't look away.
Because these weren't the tales she already knew. These weren't the ones he'd shared with her during their first nights together, the ones filtered through sarcasm or softened by time. These were pieces of his past he had never spoken aloud before. Names of people who no longer existed. Places that no longer stood. Emotions she could hear in the tightness of his throat even when he tried to keep his tone light for Seline's benefit.
He told her about how he used to sneak out of his lessons to sit by the lake on the east edge of the manor grounds, how the old groundskeeper used to pretend not to see him because he knew Theo wasn't really running from the lesson—he was running from the house. He told her about a broken toy broom he loved more than any working one, and how it took him a full summer to fix it just enough to hover six inches off the ground. He told her about a dog he once fed in secret, a dog who followed him home and waited outside his window every night until his father found out and put an end to it.
Seline didn't understand the weight of the stories, of course. She responded in babyish babbles, her hands smacking against his chest in delight, as if her little soul recognized that what she was hearing mattered, even if she didn't yet have the words for why. But Luna—Luna felt every syllable like a sacred confession. Like each sentence was another thread tying them all together.
She watched as Theo's lips curved into the smallest smile when Seline leaned down to plant a drooly kiss on his jaw. He looked completely at peace, completely hers, completely theirs—and somehow, even after everything they had been through, he was still revealing pieces of himself she hadn't yet known. He wasn't just her husband or Seline's father or Lysander's safe place—he was a boy who had once needed love, desperately, and now lay beneath a little girl who gave it back without question.
Luna blinked slowly, the edges of her vision going soft.
She didn't say anything.
She didn't need to.
Because in that sun-drenched room, blanketed in warmth and tangled limbs and scattered toys, she understood something she hadn't fully realized until now—love didn't always come loud and fast and burning. Sometimes, it unfolded slowly. Softly. Through stories whispered to daughters and the quiet gaze of a mother falling in love all over again with a man who had already given her everything.
The children didn't leave so much as vanish, dissolving into movement and light. Lysander shot off first, a blur of wild curls and loud, shrieking laughter, yelling something unintelligible about wings and sparkles. Seline, faithful as ever, squealed in delight and toddled after him, arms flailing, curls bouncing, her little legs moving as fast as they could carry her.
Together, they disappeared into the garden, swallowed by overgrown thyme and blooming hedges, where a cluster of fairies had taken up residence and were now, rather unfortunately, being chased by the two most chaotic small humans ever born.
Their laughter echoed through the air, fading into the warm hum of afternoon. The sound wrapped itself into the breeze, softened by bees and rustling leaves, but Luna didn't move. She stayed curled in the nest of blankets beneath the willow tree, still and quiet, her eyes not even flicking toward the garden.
She didn't need to look for them.
Her gaze was fixed on Theo.
He had just reached for a biscuit, lazily, more out of habit than hunger, when her expression stopped him cold. Her face had gone still. Full. Soft in a way that made something ache low in his chest.
"What is it?" he asked, brow drawing together, voice gentle as he watched her.
There was no teasing behind her smile this time. No tilt of her head. No clever reply waiting in her throat. Just that look—the one she gave him when something mattered.
She tucked a pale strand of hair behind her ear, and her voice, when it came, was low and reverent.
"Thank you," she said, "for telling them about your childhood."
Theo blinked.
For a moment, he didn't quite know what to say. His first instinct was to make light of it. To brush it off with something sarcastic. A joke about how toddlers didn't exactly grasp emotional trauma or lonely winters or what it meant to be raised in a house without softness.
But she wasn't laughing.
And he didn't want to ruin it.
Luna held his gaze, her voice quiet. "I think, when they're older, they'll need to hear the full story. All of it. Not just the polished bits. The truth."
He shifted slightly.
"I mean…" he started, the words catching in his throat. "Do you really think that'll be necessary?"
It wasn't defensive. Just unsure. The weight of it pressed on him, all those memories still stored in places he didn't visit often.
Luna didn't flinch. Her smile only softened further.
"Not unless you want them to," she said. "That's the thing about truth. It belongs to you. Not everyone deserves it. Not everyone will know what to do with it. But when you give it with love, it becomes something else. It becomes legacy."
The silence stretched between them.
Not uncomfortable. Just thick with meaning.
He looked away, then back again. His mouth opened, then closed.
Because he did want that. Maybe not the whole truth, not yet. Maybe not the hardest pieces. But the idea of one day telling his children how far he had come, how much he had survived before finding them, before building this life—that didn't feel quite so impossible anymore.
It didn't feel like a burden.
It felt like freedom.
Not today, though.
But maybe soon.
He let out a breath and shifted closer to her, wrapping one arm around her shoulder and pulling her gently into his chest. She leaned in without hesitation, resting her cheek above his heart. Her body melted against his with the kind of ease that only came from someone who knew, without question, that this was where she belonged.
"Not right now, okay?" he whispered into her hair. His voice was rough, but soft enough to hold something fragile inside it.
"Of course," she said, pressing a kiss to the skin just above the opening of his shirt. "Whenever you're ready."
They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped around each other in a warm cocoon of sunlight and quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't need to be filled. A hush that felt like trust. That small, golden moment stretched between them, undisturbed, until the silence broke wide open with a scream from the far end of the garden.
"YUUUUUCK!"
Lysander's voice cut through the afternoon like a wild spell gone wrong. It rang out with the raw, catastrophic pitch of a child experiencing true betrayal. Even the fairies hovering mid-air seemed to pause, their glittering wings frozen in what could only be described as shared concern.
He came crashing through the hedges, limbs flailing, face red with outrage, looking very much like a boy who had just been assaulted by something utterly unacceptable—possibly a glitter-smeared fairy's kiss, or, judging by the suspicious drool trailing down his cheek, an overly friendly pug.
His curls bounced wildly as he stormed across the grass, righteous indignation burning with every stomp of his tiny feet. "No kissing!" he shouted, breathless but firm, the declaration spilling from him as if it were now official law. And judging by the tone, it was one he fully expected the magical world to uphold.
Theo and Luna had barely turned to look at him, still caught somewhere between affection and laughter, when everything shifted.
It was sudden. Instant.
The change in the air was so sharp it felt like the wind held its breath.
There was a soft splash. Barely a sound. The kind of noise a person might miss if they weren't listening closely. Small. Harmless. Like a pebble dropped into water.
But Theo heard it.
And he knew.
The second it registered, his body moved.
Because it wasn't a pebble.
It was Seline.
Gone.
For a single, impossibly cruel heartbeat, she wasn't there.
She had wandered—just like toddlers always did. She had slipped away, her unicorn tucked under one arm, her little feet padding across the grass with the unsteady confidence of someone too small to know danger. Her curls had bounced with every step as she made her way toward the pond where the capybaras liked to gather.
And then, just like that, she had fallen.
Theo didn't pause.
He didn't speak.
He didn't breathe.
One moment, he was sitting beside Luna on the blanket.
The next, he was gone.
Not in the simple way of standing or running or reacting.
Gone in a way that stripped him of name and title. Gone in the way a man becomes nothing but fear, nothing but fire, nothing but instinct.
He wasn't Theodore Nott the father. He wasn't the husband, the strategist, the man who always knew how to plan five steps ahead.
He was urgency.
He was panic wrapped in muscle and bone.
He was the raw, unstoppable force of love that had turned to terror in a blink.
The world blurred around him as his feet pounded the grass, each step tearing through the ground with the power of a man who had faced death more times than he could count but had never—never—feared anything like this.
His heartbeat roared in his ears, louder than the wind, louder than the startled shrieks of fairies taking to the air, louder than Luna's scream behind him as she shot forward too, dragging Lysander with her, her fingers curled tightly around their son's wrist like a lifeline, like she couldn't bear to let another baby slip through her fingers.
And then he saw her.
He saw the pale curls. Saw the tiny splash. Saw the soft ripple on the surface of the water. Saw the way her little hands flailed helplessly above the murk, the unicorn already slipping beneath. And then he moved.
Faster than magic.
He hit the pond like a curse, arms plunging into the cold before his knees even touched the bank. His hands sliced through the water with precision, dragging her small, soaked body from the depths as though ripping her straight from death's reach. His breath came in ragged bursts. His voice cracked. He pulled her in, cradling her to his chest as water streamed from her hair and her dress clung to her in heavy folds. She was crying.
Which meant she was breathing.
She was alive.
She was safe.
"Baby!" Theo choked out, holding her like she might break, his hands moving over her cheeks, her arms, her chest, desperate to feel every bit of her, to make sure she was real. "Are you okay? Talk to me, baby, come on, say something—tell Daddy anything. Just a word, my little moon."
Seline let out a hiccup. Her arms clung to his neck. And then she sobbed—deep, gasping cries that shook her tiny body and shattered the panic that had wrapped around his ribs like a noose. She wasn't quiet. She wasn't still.
She was here.
That was when Luna reached them. Her dress was caught around her knees, her face pale with fear. She dropped to the grass beside them without a word, Lysander still clutching her hand. She didn't ask what happened. She didn't scream. She just gathered them both—Theo and Seline—into her arms and held them, wrapping herself around them like she could protect them from even the memory of it.
"Oh, baby girl," she whispered, her voice cracked with tears as she stroked the wet curls from Seline's face. "You just fell into the water, that's all. You're okay now. You're safe, sweetheart."
She said it again and again, as if the words themselves could undo the terror. But even as she spoke, her hands wouldn't stop shaking. They moved with care, but her nerves were frayed and unraveling with every breath she took. The fear had not left her. Not really. It hovered behind her teeth and trembled beneath her skin.
Then came another sound.
Smaller. But no less sharp.
Lysander's voice, usually so bold and filled with mischief, cracked in half. He let out a sob that startled even the birds, and then he dropped to his knees beside her and clung to her arm, tears pouring down his face.
"It is my fault…" he cried, breath hitching between words. "I wasn't there to… pro… protect Seli. I was s'posed to help her."
His voice broke.
And so did Theo.
The same man who had thrown himself into the pond without hesitation, who had moved like fury and fire and love incarnate, now found his knees failing beneath him.
He turned to his son. His voice softened, full of warmth and urgency. He knelt and took hold of Lysander's shoulders, steadying him with both hands.
"My brave boy," he said, voice thick with emotion. "No. No, listen to me. This wasn't your fault. Not even a little bit."
But Lysander was drowning in guilt.
He shook his head, crying harder. "I left her! I was just playing! I didn't watch! I didn't help her!"
Luna pulled him gently into her lap, wrapping her arms around him and rocking him as though he were still a baby. His cheek pressed to her chest. His little fists clutched her blouse like a lifeline.
"Shhh, my love," she murmured, brushing the hair from his forehead. "Shhh, it's okay. Mummy's here."
Still, he sobbed. Loud and shaking. He couldn't stop.
Luna tipped his chin up with careful fingers, guiding his red, tear-filled eyes to hers. "Look at me, sweetheart. Please."
He blinked. Hesitated. And then finally met her gaze.
She smiled, though her voice trembled. "Mummy needs you to hear this. It wasn't your fault. It really wasn't. It was an accident. Just an accident. You didn't do anything wrong."
Lysander sniffled, still struggling to catch his breath. "But I'm her big brother," he whispered. "I'm supposed to keep her safe."
Theo moved closer, wrapping both of them in his arms. He spoke with quiet certainty.
"You do keep her safe. Every day. She loves you. And so do we. You were scared. We all were. But that doesn't mean you failed. It just means we love each other even more after scary things happen."
Luna kissed Lysander's temple, her arms wrapped tight around him. His crying slowed, little by little, the waves of guilt softening into tired hiccups.
"You're safe now," she whispered against his hair. "Seline is safe. We're together. That's all that matters."
Seline, now dry and bundled in Theo's oversized jumper, rested quietly against his chest, her thumb in her mouth. Her eyes were wide but calm. She blinked slowly, as if trying to understand the tension that still lingered in the air.
Then, with a small nod and a muffled voice, she whispered, "Seli scared. But Dadda fly."
Theo froze. The breath caught in his chest.
He pulled her closer, one hand smoothing over her hair like a prayer.
"Yes, princess," he whispered into her curls. "Seli got scared. But Daddy was there. Always."
And for a long, still moment, the world exhaled.
The breeze shifted. The fairies circled above in quiet spirals. The garden held its breath and then slowly let go, as peace returned, fragile but whole, to the people who had almost lost everything.
Luna's hands hadn't stopped trembling, not even as the soft golden light of evening settled over the nursery and cast gentle shadows across the walls, not even as she moved with quiet urgency through the familiar bedtime routine that now felt like navigating a dream in slow motion. She was still shaken, her heartbeat echoing too loudly in her chest, a silent reminder of the fear that had clung to her bones since the moment Seline disappeared beneath the surface of the pond.
Every brush of a tiny limb, every blink from her daughter's sleepy eyes, every soft murmur from Lysander felt like a tether anchoring her back to reality, but it wasn't enough to stop the shaking.
It took hours, long, tender, exhausting hours to soothe Lysander, to ease the guilt and sorrow that had taken root in his small heart and bloomed into trembling sobs and fearful questions about what could have happened, about what might have been his fault.
He clung to Seline like she was the moon itself, as if by keeping her close he could undo the entire afternoon, wrap her in his arms and protect her from all the world's dangers.
He didn't ask—he insisted, in that soft, broken voice only used when he felt the world was too big, too uncertain—begging to sleep beside his sister tonight, curled close so he could listen to her tiny breath and know, without a doubt, that she was safe and warm and real.
And Luna, still barely holding herself together, could only nod and tuck them both in, layering the blankets not just to keep out the cold, but as if layering reassurance itself—whispering promises into the dark that no harm would ever come to them again, not if she could help it, not while she still had breath in her lungs.
~~~~~~
Theo was sitting at the edge of the bed, his elbows resting against his thighs, his hands limp between his knees as he murmured barely coherent fragments of thoughts to himself—half-prayers, half-confessions, his voice low and frayed around the edges like he was trying to stitch together the fraying seams of the day with the only thread he had left: the sound of his own voice in the silence. His eyes were red-rimmed but dry now, wide open and staring at nothing in particular, the weight of everything pressing down on him all at once.
The golden lamplight caught on the curve of his jaw, tracing the shadows beneath his cheekbones, and he looked more undone than Luna had seen him in months—perhaps even more than after the war, more than after his darkest missions, because this time, it hadn't been just blood or violence. It had been fear. It had been Seline. It had been almost losing everything.
And when Luna stepped into the doorway of their bedroom, the warm hush of the night clinging to her bare shoulders, her body barely cloaked in soft ivory silk and lace, her expression unreadable save for the soft shimmer of vulnerability that swam in her gaze, he looked up at her slowly—as if afraid she might vanish if he moved too quickly, as if the sight of her was too much and not enough all at once.
His breath caught, his voice a rasp. "My birthday present?"
A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips as she stepped toward him, her steps slow, deliberate, the silence between them thick with unspoken things. "Yes, Sunny," she whispered, and the nickname alone shattered something in him. She straddled his lap without hesitation, her knees bracketing his thighs, the silk of her nightdress brushing against the worn fabric of his trousers as she settled onto him.
Her hands rose gently to cup his face, her thumbs brushing the corners of his eyes, her touch featherlight but grounding, as though she could smooth the tension right out of him, drag him out of the dark with nothing more than her presence.
"Thank you for saving my baby girl," she said, and the words, spoken with such simple reverence, such raw, unwavering truth, hit him harder than any spell, any blade, any war wound ever could. He blinked rapidly, trying to keep the dam from breaking, but it was no use.
"And thank you," he whispered hoarsely, his voice already beginning to crack, and though it wasn't louder than a breath, it felt like it shook through his entire body as he pressed the words into the tender space between her collarbones, like he needed her to absorb them, to know he meant them more than anything, "for soothing Ly… he was—he was so terrified, Luna, he couldn't stop crying, he just kept repeating her name and I—" his voice broke completely then, and he buried his face into her chest, like if he could just melt into her skin he might finally find some relief from the crushing guilt and helplessness that had been clinging to him since that moment in the garden, since the splash, since the cry, since the shriek of panic in his daughter's lungs that he still couldn't stop hearing.
Her hand curled around the back of his neck, grounding him as she pressed her lips against his hairline and whispered, so low and soft it nearly disappeared into his skin, "I know, love… I know," and for a second they just held each other, suspended in that quiet grief, that storm of what-ifs that neither of them wanted to say aloud—but then her voice trembled, like a fraying thread pulled too tight, and she murmured, "I think… I think I'd kill myself if anything happened to one of them," and though the words were whispered with heartbreaking honesty, without theatrics or drama, just the raw, soul-deep truth of a mother who had known the grip of fear around her throat, Theo jolted like he'd been struck by lightning.
"No," he gasped, his hands tightening around her waist as he pulled her even closer, like he could fuse their bones together, his voice suddenly fierce, desperate, shaken, "No—don't ever say something like that, Luna, not even as a thought, not even for a second," and there was panic in his tone now, something wild and protective and pleading all at once. "Nothing will ever happen to them, do you hear me? Not ever. Not while I breathe. Not while I live. I'll destroy the world before I let anyone touch them. I swear to you, Luna, nothing will happen to our babies."
He kissed her then, not to quiet her, not to distract her, but like he needed to physically seal the vow between their lips, like his promise wasn't real until it was spoken into her mouth and tasted on her tongue. The kiss was soft, slow, aching—his hand rising to cradle her jaw as if she were fragile porcelain that had just cracked beneath the pressure of too much love and too much fear.
When they finally broke apart, her breath caught on a soft, trembling sound as his hand trailed down her side, smoothing gently over the soft silk of her knickers, his touch reverent now, not urgent, as if he needed the physicality of her to anchor him, to remind himself that she was here, that their children were safe, that this moment of safety and softness and skin—was real.
Her lips curved into the barest smile, her eyes still shining with unshed emotion. "You like it?" she asked quietly, her voice lighter now, teasing, trying to shift the mood just slightly, trying to find the comfort of their usual rhythm even in the aftermath of panic.
His gaze darkened with something tender, something ravenous. "Very much," he murmured, dragging his knuckles slowly along the hem, his thumb hooking into the side of the fabric like he was contemplating whether or not he could bear to take it off just yet. "But I prefer you without, my moon," he added, his voice dropping into something deeper, heavier, but not quite hungry yet—just intimate. "Still, tonight, just let me look at you. Please. Let me have this… let me see you like this, glowing and here and safe."
"You always tease, love," she murmured, her voice somewhere between amused and wounded, like she was trying to brush off the ache blooming quietly in her chest. There was still a glint of mischief in her eyes, but it was dimmed—subdued beneath something she hadn't quite said yet.
Theo laughed softly, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest, but even as the smile played at his lips, his gaze sharpened. He knew her too well. "So what I'm hearing," he drawled, tilting his head slightly, "is that my absolutely stunning, endlessly dangerous, brilliant wife is trying to tell me that I've somehow left her unsatisfied?"
Her mouth dropped open, a little scandalized, a little indignant. "I did not say that!" she huffed, spinning on her heel with the kind of dramatic flair that only Luna Lovegood could manage in silk and moonlight. "I specifically bought this for you," she went on, gesturing vaguely at the lingerie clinging to her skin like mist and honey, "for you to like it—and you hate it."
She turned away before she could say more, as if she couldn't stand to be in front of him when the words finished leaving her mouth, when her vulnerability fully settled between them.
But Theo's hands were already there, firm and certain as they grabbed her hips, grounding her before she could take another step. He tugged her back gently, wordlessly guiding her until she was straddling his lap again, facing him, close enough that the air between them felt heavy with everything unsaid. His eyes searched her face with a softness that never came easily, that was reserved only for her, only for these quiet moments when he let the world fall away and simply looked at her like she was the only thing in it worth existing for.
"What's bothering you, love?" he asked, and this time his voice wasn't playful, wasn't teasing. It was gentle. Earnest. A quiet plea wrapped in velvet.
She bit her lip, her fingers curling slightly at the hem of her own nightgown, tugging at the fabric as if it could help her find the right words. "You hate my gift," she said again, softer this time, but the pain was clearer now, the disappointment bleeding through her defenses. "I thought—I thought you'd like it. That you'd… want me more because of it."
Theo's heart clenched so hard it felt like something inside him cracked. "Luna," he said, his tone fierce in its tenderness, "how could I hate anything you give me? How could I hate anything that touches your skin? You think I care about lace and straps and colors when you—" he swallowed, hard, shaking his head as if the idea itself was too absurd to entertain, "when you're standing there looking like the answer to every goddamn prayer I never knew I needed to whisper?"
She opened her mouth to respond, but he didn't give her the chance. He leaned forward and kissed her neck, slowly, reverently, his lips brushing over the delicate skin just beneath her jaw before trailing downward in a path of soft, wet kisses that turned messier as he found the pulse point thudding wildly under her skin. He sucked there for a moment, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to mark—enough to claim.
Her breath hitched. "I bought it so you could fuck me in it," she whispered suddenly, the words tumbling from her lips in a rush, like she'd been holding them back all evening and could no longer contain them. "I bought it for you. I thought tonight would be… perfect. But today was—" she hesitated, her voice catching, "today wasn't what I planned."
Theo froze for half a heartbeat, then pulled back just far enough to look her in the eyes. "Today was terrifying," he said honestly. "But you… you made it okay. You held our babies. You held me. And now you're sitting on my lap wearing the only thing I will ever let haunt my dreams from this day forward. You still think this night isn't perfect?"
Her lip trembled just slightly, but then his hand rose to cup her cheek, thumb sweeping gently under her eye. "Let me show you what I see when I look at you," he whispered. "And I swear, love, you'll never question whether I want you again."