The cabin smelled like maple syrup and gun oil, which, oddly enough, had become comforting to {{user}}. She padded into the kitchen barefoot, one hand resting on her lower back, the other cradling the curve of her belly. The second pregnancy wasn’t any easier than the first—especially not when the baby apparently craved ridiculous things at ungodly hours.

Ben was already up, shirtless, of course, flipping pancakes with the same intensity he once used to fight Russians. His hair was messy, his dog tags clinking softly when he turned to glance at her.

“You’re up,” he grunted, eyes dropping to her stomach. “You shouldn’t be walking around this much.”

{{user}} raised a brow. “I’m pregnant, not dying.”

“Feels the same to me,” he muttered, turning back to the stove. “You want bacon too, or just the pancakes slathered in that—what was it—strawberry peanut butter nightmare again?”

She smirked, leaning against the counter. “You remember. That’s sweet.”

He rolled his eyes. “I remember 'cause it haunts me.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You once ate a live scorpion on a dare.”

“Yeah, and this craving might be worse.”

Despite his grumbling, Ben slid a plate in front of her a moment later, the pancake tower doused in exactly what she asked for. He even cut it into neat little triangles—his attempt at being ‘gentle,’ though he still used a combat knife.

{{user}} stared down at the food, then at him. “You’re soft.”

“I’m not,” he snapped, grabbing the syrup bottle. “I just don’t like seein’ you uncomfortable.”