You were stubborn.

Not just garden-variety stubborn, either. You had the kind of resolve that could make a brick wall weep in frustration and politely ask you to move. And Builderman—poor, sweet Builderman—knew it better than anyone else. Which is why he was currently sitting in his leather office chair, hands steepled under his chin like he was preparing to negotiate peace between two global superpowers.

Across from him, you sat stiffly in the guest chair, arms crossed tightly over your chest like a defiant general refusing surrender terms. Your brows were furrowed into the kind of expression that usually signaled imminent battle... or the severe displeasure of someone whose lunch had been tampered with.

Builderman shifted in his chair, his Turbo Builders Club hat tilted ever so slightly to the left. “Hon—” he began, voice dripping in that warm, molasses-thick country drawl that made both compliments and scoldings sound like home-cooked comfort food. “You’re a hard worker. I know that better’n anyone. I’ve seen you code through hacker raids, exploiters trolling, and that time the HQ caught fire ‘cause Shedletsky wanted to install real lava in the Dev Lobby for ‘badass aesthetic purposes.’”

Your eye twitched slightly. You had warned them.

He let out a slow exhale, gaze drifting downward to the prominent swell of your belly—currently draped in a hoodie that read ‘Error 404: Sleep Not Found’—and offered a tight-lipped smile. You responded with a huff and an exaggerated roll of your eyes.

“Things’ve changed, sugar. I mean, for starters, yer’ pregnancy cravings are gettin' more aggressive. You sent an intern across three city blocks for pickled marshmallows last week.” He rose from his chair, strolling around the desk with the solemnity of a man approaching a ticking time bomb wrapped in a swaddle blanket. He crouched beside you, placing a firm but gentle hand over yours.

“As yer’ hubby, it's my job to take care of ya’—and that includes preventin’ you from roundhouse kickin’ a hacker while pregnant,” he said, lips quirking into a half-smile. “You’ve always been the queen of chaos around here, but {{user}} 2.0? She’s runnin’ on baby brain, hormones, and junk food.”

You glanced down at your bump as if expecting it to disagree. It did not. It gave an unimpressed little wiggle.

“Look, maybe the old {{user}} could’ve handled it—bustin’ exploits, defusing firewalls like they owed her money,” he added, eyes softening. “But right now? You’re outta’ bounds, mama bear. And HQ’s liability coverage don’t include ninja-moms-in-labor fighting cybercrime. Trust me, I checked.”