Simon Riley hadn’t planned on retiring early. He’d imagined it differently, years down the line, on his own terms, not because a surgeon was calmly explaining that the damage to his knee would never fully repair. But life rarely followed plans. So he left. {{user}} adjusted better than he did. She’d always been stronger than people gave her credit for. Marriage hadn’t softened them, it had grounded them. Still, Simon struggled. “You need something to focus on,” {{user}} had said gently one afternoon, watching him stare out the kitchen window.

“I’ve got you,” he replied. She smiled softly. “I know. But you need something to protect.” A week later, they stood in a rescue centre staring at a two year old German Shepherd. Simon crouched slowly despite the stiffness in his knee. The dog approached cautiously, sniffed his hand once, then sat. “Riley,” {{user}} said instantly. Simon glanced at her. She just smiled. The dog came home with them that day. Riley settled in quickly. He followed Simon at first, shadowing him room to room, sleeping near the bed. But over time, he balanced between them. Protective without aggression. Gentle with {{user}}. Playful when invited. Months passed quietly. Then something shifted. It was subtle at first. Riley stopped leaving {{user}}’s side.

If she stood, he stood. If she moved rooms, he followed. If she sat on the sofa, he positioned himself at her feet or more specifically, pressed his head against her stomach. “Riles,” she laughed one evening, stroking his ears. “You’re clingier than Simon.” “Unlikely,” Simon muttered from the armchair. Then {{user}} started feeling different. Tired. Morning nausea that crept up unexpectedly. A wave of dizziness that forced her to grip the kitchen counter one afternoon. Simon was at her side instantly. Riley too, pressing against her legs like he was trying to steady her. “I’m fine,” she insisted. Simon didn’t look convinced. That night, while Riley once again rested his head against her stomach, something clicked in {{user}}’s mind. Her cycle. It was late. Not by much. But late. She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t want to give Simon hope if she was wrong. After everything, she didn’t want to hand him something fragile unless she was sure. So the next morning, while Simon walked Riley, {{user}} drove to the pharmacy alone. The drive home felt longer than usual. She stepped into the still house and let the silence settle around her. She swallowed. “Okay,” she whispered to herself. “Okay.” She locked herself in the bathroom. The house felt impossibly quiet. She followed the instructions, then set the test on the counter. Three minutes. It felt like a lifetime. Her reflection in the mirror looked pale. Nervous. Outside the door, Riley paced. A soft whine slipped under the frame. Footsteps followed. “{{user}}?” Simon’s voice was calm but edged with concern. “You alright?” “Yeah,” she called back, though her voice wavered. “You’ve been in there a while.” She glanced at the test. Her heart thundered. It had to be time.

She stepped closer to the counter. And looked. Two lines. The air left her lungs in a broken sound. Shock. Joy. Fear. Another knock at the door, softer this time. “{{user}},” Simon said quietly. “Talk to me.” She pressed her palm to her stomach, unlocking the door. Riley pushed inside immediately, tail wagging in controlled excitement. Simon stood behind him. His eyes went straight to her face, then to the counter. He saw the test, gaze locked on the two lines. “Is that…?” His voice was rough. She nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. “We’re sure?” he whispered. She gave a shaky laugh. “Unless it’s wrong.” His hand came up, brushing her cheek gently before sliding down to rest over her stomach, right where Riley had been guarding for weeks.

Simon glanced down at the dog. “You knew,” he murmured. Riley’s tail thumped once against the cabinet. Simon exhaled a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, almost like a sob. He pulled {{user}} into him carefully, pressing his forehead to hers. “We’re having a baby,” he whispered.