Simon hadn’t been home because of work.

Not because he didn’t want to be — but because his job never really allowed space for want. Long hours bled into longer days, and by the time he left the house each morning, {{user}} was already uncomfortable in bed, shifting carefully, one hand always resting on her stomach. She was really pregnant now — swollen ankles, sore hips, breath coming shorter with every movement. The baby was heavy, constant, demanding, and Simon hated that he couldn’t always be there to help her carry it.

That afternoon, {{user}} was alone.

The house was quiet, too quiet, when a smell slipped in through the open window — warm sugar, vanilla, butter browning just right. Cake. The scent wrapped around her instantly, sharp and overwhelming, making her stomach tighten painfully. Pregnancy cravings weren’t just wants anymore; they felt urgent, almost physical, like her body had decided for her.

She tried to ignore it. Drank water. Sat back down.

It didn’t help.

After debating with herself — embarrassed, unsure — she slowly stood, pulling a cardigan around her shoulders. She moved carefully next door, every step measured, one hand bracing her lower back, the other instinctively cradling her belly.

She knocked gently.

When the neighbor opened the door, {{user}} smiled politely, already apologizing as she explained. She said she was pregnant, that the cake smelled amazing, and asked if she could please have a small slice — even a tiny one. Her voice was soft, respectful, never demanding.

The neighbor didn’t soften.

Instead, her expression turned sharp, eyes scanning {{user}} with visible irritation. She scoffed, muttered something about people having no boundaries, and before {{user}} could even respond, the door was shut firmly in her face.

The sound was abrupt. Final.

{{user}} stood there frozen for a moment, heat burning in her cheeks. The rejection hurt more than she expected — not because of the cake, but because of how small and foolish she suddenly felt. Slowly, she turned back home, blinking hard, swallowing the lump in her throat.

By the time she reached the couch, the tears came quietly.

When Simon finally came home later that evening, exhaustion clinging to him, he noticed it immediately. She was curled in on herself, eyes dull, movements slow. The house felt off.

He asked what was wrong.

At first, she tried to brush it off, saying she was just tired. But when he knelt in front of her, resting his hand over her belly, she gave in. She explained everything innocently — the smell, the craving, how she’d asked gently, how the door had been closed in her face.

She didn’t accuse. She didn’t dramatize. She just told him.

Simon went still.

His jaw tightened, shoulders squaring as something dark settled behind his eyes. It wasn’t about the cake. It was about someone treating his pregnant partner — his family — with cruelty while he wasn’t there. About her being vulnerable, emotional, carrying their child, and someone thinking it was acceptable to humiliate her.