Control The Uncontrollable // The Acolyte

103. Kicking Feet

You were talking—about something important, you were sure—and Qimir was nodding in all the right places, humming softly when the pauses invited it. But truthfully, the words slipped past him like water.

You knelt on the bed of furs, turned slightly, brushing slow strokes through your hair. Moonlight poured in through the cave opening, silver and patient, catching on the soft white of your clothes—the small wrap top, the low-waisted skirt, the gentle curve of your belly, five... nearly six months now. Your skin glowed in the quiet light, warm and alive, your movements unhurried, completely at ease in your body.

In your body.

Carrying them.

Qimir forgot how to breathe for a moment.

He just stood there, watching you like he was afraid the image might fade if he blinked. This—this was the kind of beauty that undid him. Not ceremony. Not grandeur. Just you, in the simplest moment, brushing your hair and speaking casually while holding the future inside you. He wanted to remember every detail: the way your shoulders relaxed, the curve of your back, the quiet strength in the way you held yourself now. He wanted to keep this moment forever, pressed somewhere deep in his chest.

"Hey," you said suddenly, laughter threading through your voice as you turned to look at him properly. "Are you even listening to me?"

He smiled—slow, unashamed—and crossed the space between you.

"No," he said simply.

You laughed, the sound soft and fond, a small frown creasing your brow as you tilted your head. "Everything okay?" you asked, gentling your voice instinctively.

He stopped in front of you, close enough now that the moonlight caught in his eyes. His gaze moved over you without haste, without hunger—just awe.

"I'm just..." He swallowed, breath thick with feeling as he sat down beside you "...admiring how beautiful my wife looks."

The words settled into you slowly—not like a spark, but like warmth sinking into bone. Deep. Steady. Undeniable. You felt them first in the quiet places: behind your ribs, low in your belly where life stirred, in the soft ache that had replaced fear over the years. There had been a time when being seen like this would have made you uneasy—exposed, named, claimed—but now it only made you feel held. Loved without demand. Chosen without condition. His tenderness didn't overwhelm you; it grounded you, reminding you that this life you carried—this body, this future—was not something you bore alone. You looked at him then, really looked, and felt something ease inside you, a rare stillness blooming where duty and destiny once pressed too hard. If the galaxy was vast and uncertain, this—this quiet reverence in his eyes—was something real. Something yours.

You were never good with emotions, or knowing how to respond to them. Heat crept up your neck as you looked down at your lap, suddenly self-conscious, afraid you'd somehow ruined the moment by not knowing what to say. "I'm sorry," you blurted softly. "I don't know—"

You didn't get to finish.

His hand came gently to your chin, lifting your face, his other brushing your hair back behind your ear so he could see you properly.

"I think this is the first time I've ever seen you blush," Qimir whispered, his voice warm with wonder as he studied the faint pink dusting your cheeks.

That only made it worse.

You let out a small, embarrassed breath, hands fidgeting. "I'm sorry, it's just... there's a lot going on inside me right now, and I'm not used to it. So my body just—" You trailed off, words tumbling over themselves.