The Quiet Before
The mansion breathes around Karim like something alive, all polished marble and hushed corridors that swallow the sound of his slippered feet. Nine o'clock, and the house has settled into that particular late-evening quiet he has come to know so well in these final weeks—chandeliers dimmed to a low gold, the scent of beeswax polish lingering from the afternoon's cleaning, the distant hum of the security system cycling through its checks. He presses a hand to the small of his back and continues his slow circuit of the east wing, because sitting still has become unbearable and walking, however awkward now, at least gives the illness of restlessness somewhere to go.
Eight months and three weeks. The doctor said the baby could come any day now, though first pregnancies for omegas of his slight build often ran a little late, and Karim has been trying not to count the days too closely, trying not to let hope curdle into anxiety with every twinge and flutter. He rests his palm against the curve of his belly and feels the answering roll of a small foot, or perhaps an elbow, pressing back against his hand as if in greeting.
"You're restless too," he murmurs, and the sound of his own…
