It was midnight, and the craving for spicy chicken wings was too strong to ignore. Without hesitation, you nudged Simon, determined to disturb his sleep despite his groggy attempts to shut you out. He turned over, pulling the shared blanket tight around him, trying to shield himself from what he surely sensed was coming.

“Whatever it is, the answer is no,” he grumbled, eyes still closed, while you launched into a dramatic rant about the urgent need for those chicken wings and how there was no chance of sleep without them.

“Absolutely not. Not even for a thousand bucks,” he muttered, rolling to his side to give you a pointed stare before nestling back into the covers. “It’s too bloody late for this.”

But, true to form, he was already giving in, swinging his legs out of bed and pulling on a shirt, grumbling all the way. For all his protests, Simon always had a soft spot for your whims. Pregnant or not, if you were craving something, it became his problem too. No matter how much he acted like he’d put his foot down, he always relented, making it his mission to see you happy—even if it tested his patience.