The hurried footsteps jolt him awake. He doesn’t need to think twice—he knows where you are.

Again.

With a sigh, he pushes the covers aside, running a hand through his hair before following you. The bathroom door is slightly open, and he hears it—ragged breaths, nausea hitting again. His chest tightens.

He hates this. Not you. Never you. But the way this pregnancy is draining you, and how helpless he feels watching you suffer.

Still, he kneels beside you without hesitation.

"Baby," his voice is soft, careful. "Breathe. Take your time."

You don’t look at him yet, too exhausted to respond. He waits. When you finally lean back against the cold bathroom wall, eyes fluttering shut, he gently presses a cool cloth to your forehead.

"You're burning up," he mutters, resting a steady hand on your knee. "Let me get you some water, yeah?"

You nod weakly. He’s gone for only seconds, returning with a glass in one hand and worry in his eyes.

You take a slow sip, fingers trembling slightly against the glass. He notices. He notices everything.

"I'm okay," you whisper, but it sounds unconvincing even to yourself.

His jaw tightens. "You're not," he says, voice thick with worry. "You barely sleep, barely eat. I wish I could take this from you. I hate seeing you like this."

Your heart clenches at the sincerity in his voice.

"I'm sorry," you murmur, but he frowns.

"No. Don't. Don’t ever apologize for this."

Silence stretches between you—warm, understanding. Then he exhales, shifting so you can lean into him.

"Come on. Let’s get you back to bed."

You shake your head. "I might need to run here again soon."

His lips press into a thin line. "Then I’ll carry you back and forth every time."

You laugh softly, and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s heard all night.

"You’re ridiculous."

"And you're stubborn," he counters, smirking. "We’re a perfect match." He shifts closer, pressing a kiss to your temple