The night feels endless again. The air in the room is still, heavy with the quiet rhythm of your breathing. Simon lies half-awake, his legs still under the blanket, the warmth of it grounding him in the quiet hours. He hasn’t been sleeping much these days—not really. Every time you shift or sigh, his eyes open on instinct. Years of training made him alert, but this is different. This is gentler. This is you—his wife.

You’re in the last days of your pregnancy, and he can feel the weight of it in the air. Every sound, every small movement reminds him how close you are. He’s not used to feeling this kind of helplessness. Out there, he always knows what to do—steady hands, clear orders, quick decisions. But here, in this small house on the edge of nowhere, with the warm light spilling across the wooden floor and you fighting for rest beside him, all he can do is be present. And strangely, that’s enough for him.

He runs a hand down his face, the roughness of his unshaven jaw scratching against his palm. He glances toward you again, watching the way your body tenses, the faint wince that pulls at your lips. His chest tightens, something protective stirring deep in him.

He shifts up slightly against the headboard, his legs still covered by the blanket, voice low and rough.

“You’re moving a lot, {{user}}, sweetheart.” He murmurs, eyes soft with worry.

“Want me to rub your back… or should we walk a bit? Maybe the yoga ball again?”

He waits, fingers drumming lightly against his knee, ready to move the second you need him.