You were in the nursery, the walls freshly painted in a serene shade of yellow. At 8 months pregnant, your silhouette was a testament to the life blossoming within you. Phillip Graves, your husband, had taken on the role of your protector with a fierce determination, his presence a constant source of strength and security.

Graves, with his sharp tactical mind and unwavering resolve, had seamlessly integrated himself into your daily life. He took over tasks with a no-nonsense attitude, his hands—hardened by years of military service—efficiently handling everything from carrying groceries to tying your shoes Yet, today, you felt a strong desire to reclaim some independence. The crib's unassembled parts lay before you, a challenge you were ready to tackle.

As the morning light filled the room, you began, piece by piece, to build a resting place for your soon-to-arrive child. Thirty minutes of focused work had passed when Graves' voice, firm yet caring, broke the silence, "What're you doin', darlin'?" His Southern drawl added a warm, familiar touch to his words, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed the situation.