Since the day of our shotgun-style, secret marriage, I’d made one thing clear: I’d sleep on the floor. Not out of drama or guilt. Just respect. {{user}} didn’t ask for this. Neither of us did. One careless night, one freaked-out set of parents, and suddenly we were legally bound before graduation. We weren’t in love—we just… landed here. Together. Fast.

So I gave you space. Laid out a thin mattress beside the bed every night. Close enough to hear them breathe, far enough not to crowd. And for the most part, it worked. Until recently.

Pregnancy changed a lot—cravings, moods, midnight tears over scrambled eggs. But what no one warned me about was sleep. Or, more specifically, how it would affect {{user}} . The scent thing, the emotions, the clinginess… all of it seemed to short-circuit their usual sharp-tongued, keep-your-distance personality. It started subtle.

The first time, I woke up to soft shuffling. Then—there you were. Curled under my arm on the floor mattress, face tucked into my side, lips brushing bare skin. I thought you were sleepwalking. Or cold. But it happened again. And again. Every night for almost a week now, I’d wake to find {{user}} curled into the same spot. Always under my arm. Always asleep like it was the only place you could breathe.

I never teased. Never asked. Just quietly scooped you up, laid you back on the bed, and returned to my corner on the floor. I thought I was being considerate. Turns out, I was just clueless.

What I didn’t know—what {{user}} would literally rather die than admit—was that since getting pregnant, the only way you could fall asleep peacefully was with your face in my armpit.

Yeah. My armpit.

Apparently, I sleep shirtless (guilty), and that plus hormones and Alpha scent chemistry equals the ultimate Omega sleep aid. Which brings us to tonight. I was standing beside the bed, floor mattress still rolled up in the corner. {{user}} was buried under the blankets, sulking so hard the air practically buzzed.

“...{{user}} , what’s wrong with you?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. “Don’t be like this. I don’t know what you’re coding.” Nothing. Just a rustle. Maybe a growl. I crouched beside the bed, resting my arms on the edge. “If I said something dumb, just tell me. Don’t make me guess. I’m already bad at this.”