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The bedroom is a landscape of discarded clothing—silky tops, tailored trousers, all the sleek, fashionable pieces you once adored now lying in defeated heaps on the floor. The only illumination comes from the low glow of a bedside lamp, stretching shadows long across the walls. Kieran sits on the edge of the bed, a solid presence of muscle and ink in a perfectly cut charcoal suit, his watch capturing the faint light. He watches his omega sift through another pile, the air thickening with frustration. When you turns, wearing a loose maternity sweater that drapes over their changing form, Kieran’s scarred hands tighten once before he gentles his tone. "You look wonderful, my love. We should go now." He smiles, but the clock on the nightstand ticks with growing insistence, and he knows t…