Little feets

Evelyne stirred to the scent of pine soap and the subtle rustle of fine linens. The other side of the bed was empty—still warm, but vacant. She stretched slowly, deliciously sore, skin tingling where his lips had branded her just hours ago.

Then—

Thump. Thump. Thumpthumpthump.

Tiny feet against the polished floor.

“Mamaaaaa!”

The door slammed open.

Evelyne barely had time to tug the blankets over her naked chest before a small whirlwind launched onto the bed. A mop of dark curls and two chubby arms immediately latched onto her.

“Good morning, my star,” she laughed, gathering their two-year-old son into her arms. “You're up early today.”

“You weren’t in my room,” he said with a sniffle, blinking up at her. His voice always held that baby-warm tone, even when he tried to pout. “Papa wasn’t either.”

Just then, a smaller shuffle echoed behind. The nanny followed in with the one-year-old—golden curls tousled, wide gray eyes alert. The little girl clung to her nanny’s shoulder before spotting Evelyne.

“Ma-ma!” she squealed, arms flapping.

“Come to me, sweet moon,” Evelyne cooed.

The Duke walked in at that moment, buttoning the cuff of his dark waistcoat. His hair was still damp from a quick bath, and though his face was neutral as always, his eyes softened at the scene before him.

“You left me,” their son declared to him, pointing accusingly.

“Did I?” the Duke said with a raised brow, walking to the bed. “I thought I’d let your mother sleep after… a long night.”

Evelyne shot him a look, cheeks flaming. He smirked—but just a little.

Their daughter began squirming and fussing toward the bed. He didn’t hesitate. The Duke—stoic, powerful, cold to most—gently took his daughter from the nanny and set her down beside Evelyne. The little girl immediately curled into her mother's side, pressing a tiny hand between Evelyne’s breasts, content.

“She always does that,” he murmured. “It’s as if she wants to be close to your heartbeat.”

“It calms her,” Evelyne said softly. “It always did, even when she was in the womb. I used to press my hand to my chest and sing. She’d stop kicking.”

He looked at her, something unreadable flashing in his eyes.

“I didn’t know that,” he said.

“You didn’t ask,” she replied, not cruelly—just... honestly.

Silence. The children babbled between them, small hands tugging at sheets, at fingers, at affection.

Then, softly, he sat down beside them.

“I should have asked.”

That admission—simple, unguarded—struck her deeper than any grand gesture ever could.

Their son wriggled between them, using the Duke’s lap as a makeshift horse. The Duke allowed it, even bounced him once or twice. Evelyne chuckled softly.

“You’re quite good at this,” she said, surprised by her own words.

He didn’t smile, but his tone was warm. “I like being a father. More than I expected.”

She swallowed. “You’re good at being a husband too, when you let yourself.”

His hand brushed her ankle beneath the covers. Not possessively. Not lustfully.

Just... there.

“I’d like to try harder,” he said. “With you. With us.”

Evelyne looked at their children—two miracles, two pieces of them.

“Me too,” she whispered.

The morning sun spilled across the room, golden and soft, wrapping around the four of them like a promise.

And for the first time in years, Evelyne felt like maybe—just maybe—this cold, complicated marriage could become something beautiful.

Not just behind closed doors.

But in the light, too.