Dean had spent the last four days reminding Arion that fate clearly had a sense of humor.
Five minutes.
That was all Arion had managed after finally reaching their bedroom that night.
Five minutes of closing the door, catching Dean around the waist, and looking entirely too satisfied about having survived Hendrik’s interruption.
Then Otto called.
There had been an actual emergency involving a collapsed transport corridor near one of the northern military depots, enough damaged infrastructure to require immediate authorization, and several officers apparently incapable of agreeing on anything without dragging the imperial family into it.
Arion had stared at his phone.
Dean had stared at Arion.
Then Dean had started laughing.
Arion had left twenty minutes later with the expression of a man considering whether abdication was an appropriate response to administrative inconvenience.
Dean had been delighted about the entire thing.
Mostly because Arion had spent the intervening hours sending messages that became increasingly terse every time Dean replied with another duck emoji.
Now, several days later, Dean had discovered that the universe had not finished amusing itself.
He stood in the private bathroom staring down at three pregnancy tests arranged in a perfectly straight line across the marble counter.
Dean had taken the first pregnancy test because Seven’s office told him to.
That was the only reason.
His routine checkup that morning included hormone levels, gland function, and the usual blood work after several weeks of travel and stress. Pregnancy screening was part of the instructions whenever it could interfere with the results, so Dean had followed them without giving the matter much thought.
Then two lines appeared.
Dean had stared at them long enough for the bathroom lights to dim automatically.
He waved one hand until they brightened again, picked up the instruction leaflet, read it despite knowing perfectly well what two lines meant, and opened the second test.
Two lines.
The third had been an act of desperation rather than science.
It was positive too.
Now all three sat in an accusing row on the pale marble counter while Dean stood before them in loose grey trousers and a black long-sleeved shirt, his damp blond hair pushed untidily behind his ears.
He felt completely normal.
That offended him most.
He pressed both hands against the counter and leaned closer, as though one of the tests might eventually become embarrassed and retract its statement.
Nothing happened.
"Right."
The bathroom gave him no useful response.
Dean straightened and looked at himself in the mirror.
Three years married.
Months of refusing to seriously discuss children.
One afternoon in a department store imagining a little boy with Arion’s dark hair and gold eyes.
One dinner admitting that, yes, perhaps he wanted their love to become something beyond the two of them.
Apparently his body had heard the conversation and decided everyone else was moving too slowly.
Dean covered his face.
"Oh, this is absurd."
Arion was going to be unbearable.
Dean knew exactly how carefully Arion had kept his instincts under control for him. Wanting a child had never been a secret, but Arion had treated Dean’s reluctance as final every time the subject surfaced.
And now Dean was already pregnant.
Possibly before he had even realized what he wanted to be.
He lowered his hands and looked at the tests again.
There had been signs, perhaps.
He had been tired, although everyone had been tired.
His appetite had changed slightly.
His pheromones had been stronger lately.
And then there had been that morning.
Dean’s face heated immediately.
The bed.
The absolutely catastrophic amount of fluid.
Arion had enjoyed that far too much.
Dean had blamed hormones, exhaustion, and the fact that his husband had apparently decided restraint was unnecessary at six in the morning.
Now he stared at the tests and wondered whether his body had already been changing then.
A sound came from the bedroom.
Dean froze.
The outer suite door closed.
His head snapped toward the bathroom entrance.
No.
Arion was not supposed to be home yet.
Dean checked the time on his phone.
09:24.
He had at least two hours.
Apparently not.
Footsteps crossed the sitting room.
Dean reacted without thinking.
He swept all three pregnancy tests off the counter, yanked open the nearest drawer, shoved them inside among spare toiletries, and closed it with considerably more force than necessary.
Then he stood there. His heart was beating too fast.
Which was ridiculous.
He had no reason to panic.
Arion was his husband.
This was Arion’s child.
Yet the moment he heard Arion approaching, every sensible thought abandoned him.
"Dean?"
Dean stared at the closed bathroom door.
He did not answer.
There was a pause outside.
Then the handle moved.
Dean crossed the room in two steps and locked it.
Silence.
He looked at the lock.
Why had he done that?
"Dean."
Arion’s voice had changed.
"I’m showering."
There was another pause.
The bathroom was completely dry.
Dean looked toward the shower enclosure.
An excellent lie.
"You showered already."
Dean glanced at his damp hair reflected in the mirror.
"That doesn’t prove anything."
Outside, Arion went quiet.
Dean could practically see his expression through the door.
"Are you feeling well?"
"Yes."
The answer came much too quickly.
Arion tried the handle once.
Dean put one hand against the door as though his seven-foot-tall husband might suddenly decide to invade his own bathroom.
"Why is this locked?"
"I wanted privacy."
"You have never locked this door."
"I am developing boundaries."
A long silence followed.
Dean bit the inside of his cheek.
This was becoming worse with every sentence.
Arion’s pheromones reached him faintly through the door, vetiver deepening with concern.
Dean’s own answered immediately.
Mint lemonade rose warmer from his throat and wrists.
Arion went still outside.
Dean knew because the quiet changed.
Then came, more carefully, "Your scent is doing it again."
Dean closed his eyes.
Of course Arion had noticed.
"What?"
"It’s different."
Dean stared accusingly at the door.
"You’ve been saying that for two weeks."
"Yes."
That stopped him.
Two weeks.
Dean turned slowly toward the mirror.
Arion continued from the other side.
"At first I thought you were exhausted. Then it became sweeter."
Dean’s stomach dropped pleasantly and horribly at the same time.
"You said nothing."
"You were tired. We had just pulled Amaru out of Veyra, traveled constantly, and you had been sleeping badly."
A pause.
"And then there was the morning you soaked the bed."
Dean’s face went scarlet.
"Do not call it that."
"What would you prefer?"
"I hate you."
"No, you don’t."
Dean pressed his forehead against the cool door.
Arion sounded far too calm.
"I assumed it was hormonal," Arion continued. "Your scent was different that morning too."
"You did not mention this while making fun of me?"
"I was distracted."
Dean made a strangled sound.
That was not helpful.
Outside, Arion apparently heard enough in his pheromones to become concerned again.
"Dean, open the door."
"No."
"Are you sick?"
"No."
"Did Seven call?"
"No."
"Are you in pain?"
"No."
"Then why are you hiding in the bathroom?"
Dean had absolutely no answer.
He looked back at the drawer containing three positive pregnancy tests.
His stomach fluttered.
Then he started laughing, quietly at first, because this was ridiculous.
Arion was outside worrying that Dean had developed some mysterious illness while Dean stood two meters away guarding three plastic sticks like state secrets.
The laughter escaped harder.
"Dean?"
"I’m fine."
"You’re laughing."
"Yes."
"That is not reassuring."
Dean wiped beneath one eye.
Arion tried the handle again.
"Open the door."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I need thirty seconds."
"For what?"
"To stop being insane."
That, at least, was honest.
Silence followed.
Then Arion said, very carefully, "Is this related to the way your pheromones changed?"
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