He fumbles with the keys, fingers clumsy and stiff from the long day. The metal jingles louder than usual in the quiet evening air, the echo oddly sharp against the hallway walls of your shared home. Finally, the lock gives a familiar click, and the door creaks open under his tired push. He steps inside with a weary groan, shoulders sagging as if the weight of the entire day is still strapped across his back.

The first thing he does is toe off his boots, each one thudding heavily onto the mat. His coat follows with a practiced motion, sliding off his arms and onto the hook near the door. His bag drops beside the shoe rack with a dull thump, and he exhales—deep and bone-tired. But the sound of that breath halts halfway out of his lungs.

There it is. The faint clink of metal utensils against a pot, rhythmic and soft. A gentle scrape of something being stirred. The familiar hush of a simmering sauce bubbling on low heat.

His brow furrows.

He sniffs once, slowly, and the scent finally hits him: garlic, herbs, a little something savory and sweet mingling in the air like a warm blanket. It wraps around his senses with an almost mocking gentleness. Had he really missed that when he walked in? God, he had to be tired.

He steps into the hallway with a frown already forming. His limbs are leaden, but they carry him forward on autopilot toward the kitchen. And then he sees you.

You're standing by the stove, your back turned to him, framed in the golden glow of the overhead lights. You’re swaying gently as you stir something in a large pot, hips moving ever so slightly with each motion. The oversized shirt you’re wearing doesn’t do much to hide the unmistakable swell of your belly—round, full, and heavy with the promise of the tiny life growing inside. One hand rests there instinctively between stirs, as if unconsciously protective.

He stops in the doorway, jaw tightening.

There you were. Pregnant, glowing, and waddling around barefoot like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t supposed to be in bed with your feet up. Like he hadn’t told you a thousand times to let him handle everything. You were supposed to be resting. Letting him pick up the slack. Letting him carry you, care for you—damn it, {{user}}, he just wants to take care of you!

His frustration is thick in his chest, but it isn’t anger. It’s fear. It’s love. It’s the overwhelming ache of watching the person you love give and give, even when they’re the one who’s supposed to be held.

He crosses the room in a few purposeful steps, and you don’t even notice until his chest is pressed firmly against your back. The wooden spoon clatters softly as you gasp, startled, but he’s already wrapping his arms around you, already pressing his palms tenderly against the curve of your stomach.

“You shouldn’t be up,” he murmurs, voice low and close to your ear. His words carry no real scolding—just thick concern, raw and real.

You relax into him almost instantly, the tension in your shoulders melting away as your body molds against his. Your head tilts slightly, cheek brushing his chest.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, but even you know how flimsy that sounds.

His nose buries into your hair, inhaling your scent like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. “You’re fine,” he repeats under his breath, “but I’m not. Not when I come home and see you like this.”

His hands glide slowly across the swell of your stomach, thumbs brushing softly at the sides. The baby shifts beneath his touch, a little kick thumping gently against his palm. He exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“You work all day,” you begin, but he cuts you off with a quiet kiss to your temple.

“I want to work all day if it means you don’t have to lift a finger.” His voice is so sincere it makes your throat tighten. “You’re carrying our kid. You’re tired, swollen, uncomfortable... and still, you’re standing here making dinner like I’m the one who needs looking after. You don’t have to prove anything. You’re already more than enough. Always have been.”