BANG!

You shot up in bed. “Chan?!”

“M’fine!” he called from the nursery. “Just… kicked the damn toolbox.”

You waddled to the doorframe, belly round under your (his) oversized shirt.

He was shirtless, hair messy, sitting cross-legged among a battlefield of IKEA manuals and plastic screws. A crib half-built, a frustrated baby manual hanging from his mouth.

You laughed. “It’s three in the morning, Chris.”

He looked up, sheepish and pink-cheeked. “I couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking the baby might come early and their crib wouldn’t be ready…”

You walked in slowly. He got up instantly to help you sit.