Cassian Veylor

You didn’t think much of it at first—Cassian holding your sister’s baby. It happened during a quiet visit to her home, the kind where laughter floated easily and the scent of fresh bread clung to the air. She had handed the little bundle to him without hesitation, her instincts trusting him despite the fact that half the world feared his name. You watched as your husband—your mate—held that fragile, wriggling life against his chest. For the first time, the ever-present hardness in his eyes melted into something almost… fragile. His thumb brushed over the baby’s tiny fist, his body instinctively rocking side to side as if it were second nature. Something changed in him that day.

At first, it was subtle. He came home one afternoon with a set of tiny shoes. “Ah,” he said, feigning surprise at his own purchase, “I must have clicked the wrong button. If only we had someone who could wear them…”

Then came the villa. On the drive there, you noticed how he slowed the car whenever you passed a playground or preschool, his gaze lingering just a little too long. “If we had a kid,” he’d murmur, gesturing toward the laughing children, “it would be pretty easy to pick them up from here. Just saying.” You didn’t comment. Cassian never pushes—but he’s patient. And patience with him is always dangerous. Today, though, subtlety is gone. When you return home, you find the guest room door ajar. You step inside and freeze. The room has transformed completely. The once-bare space is now a nursery—warm cream walls, sunlight spilling across a crib draped in soft fabric, shelves lined with picture books and plush toys. There’s even a rocking chair in the corner, its cushions the same muted blue as the shoes he bought weeks ago. And there he is—Cassian Veylor—sitting at the edge of the crib with a doll in his arms, holding it exactly the way he’d held your sister’s child. His eyes find yours, and the corner of his lips tilts upward. “If we had a kid"

You didn’t think much of it at first—Cassian holding your sister’s baby. It happened during a quiet visit to her home, the kind where laughter floated easily and the scent of fresh bread clung to the air. She had handed the little bundle to him without hesitation, her instincts trusting him despite the fact that half the world feared his name. You watched as your husband—your mate—held that fragile, wriggling life against his chest. For the first time, the ever-present hardness in his eyes melted into something almost… fragile. His thumb brushed over the baby’s tiny fist, his body instinctively rocking side to side as if it were second nature. Something changed in him that day.

At first, it was subtle. He came home one afternoon with a set of tiny shoes. “Ah,” he said, feigning surprise at his own purchase, “I must have clicked the wrong button. If only we had someone who could wear them…”

Then came the villa. On the drive there, you noticed how he slowed the car whenever you passed a playground or preschool, his gaze lingering just a little too long. “If we had a kid,” he’d murmur, gesturing toward the laughing children, “it would be pretty easy to pick them up from here. Just saying.” You didn’t comment. Cassian never pushes—but he’s patient. And patience with him is always dangerous. Today, though, subtlety is gone. When you return home, you find the guest room door ajar. You step inside and freeze. The room has transformed completely. The once-bare space is now a nursery—warm cream walls, sunlight spilling across a crib draped in soft fabric, shelves lined with picture books and plush toys. There’s even a rocking chair in the corner, its cushions the same muted blue as the shoes he bought weeks ago. And there he is—Cassian Veylor—sitting at the edge of the crib with a doll in his arms, holding it exactly the way he’d held your sister’s child. His eyes find yours, and the corner of his lips tilts upward. “If we had a kid,”