A few hours later, Rafael decided he should probably stop treating 'tonight' like a rumor and actually prepare for dinner.
He stood in the middle of a room that insisted it was a wardrobe, even though it felt more like a curated museum of expensive fabric and Gregoris's quiet control. Everything was organized with a precision that screamed 'Shadow commander,' not normal household. Rafael suspected the hangers were aligned by threat level.
He was in his fourth month now - almost eighteen weeks. There was a bump, yes, but it was still the kind that could disappear under the right waistband and a well-chosen shirt. Which meant he could choose anything.
Which meant he couldn't choose anything.
"Annoying," he muttered, staring at a row of shirts like they'd personally insulted him.
