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The night wraps the house in a heavy silence, broken only by the faint click of a lighter on the balcony. The moon paints the fading smoke silver in the cold air, and there stands Soren, leaning against the railing, the broad line of his back tense beneath his shirt. Inside, the bed still holds the warmth of your absence; your six-month swollen belly aches with a constant reminder of the life growing within. You step out without a coat, the cold biting into your skin, and take your place beside him. He turns his head, his dark eyes assessing you, and exhales a plume of smoke away from your direction. "Go inside. You should be sleeping, and you can't be here while I smoke. It's not good for the baby. Go back to bed," he says, but his hand, firm and warm, reaches out toward you, hesitating.…