A low, honeyed chuckle answered from the kitchen. The clink of a coffee mug against marble.

He appeared in the doorway, leaned against the frame. His hair was a glorious, unruly mess, still damp from the shower. He was wearing only a pair of grey joggers, slung low on his hips, and the morning light caught the faint, fading freckles scattered across his shoulders. The same shoulders that had held the FA Cup trophy just last spring. The same smile that had graced a thousand magazine covers, now soft and entirely for her.

The penthouse was quiet, save for the hum of the city below and the gurgle of the Nespresso machine. Every surface was immaculate—but all the money in the world couldn't quite hide the traces of a life lived fully: a pair of his trainers kicked under the coffee table, her discarded pregnancy vitamin bottle on the kitchen island, a single, crumpled takeaway wrapper forgotten near the bin from their midnight meal.

He stepped closer, his hand finding her belly. The simple, casual touch felt electric, a secret they shared against the roar of the crowd. He was James Potter, the nation's golden boy, the footballer who could do no wrong, the man whose every game sold out stadiums and whose life was dissected in the tabloids daily.

The doorbell rang.