You were in the nursery, the walls freshly painted in a serene shade of blue. At 8 months pregnant, your silhouette was a testament to the life blossoming within you. Captain John Price, with his distinctive boonie hat set aside, had become your steadfast protector, his presence a constant source of strength.

He'd been your rock, taking over daily tasks with a gentle insistence. He had taken it upon himself to ensure your well-being, his calloused hands—marked by years of service—replacing yours for every task. Whether it was the heft of a grocery bag or the simple act of securing the laces of your boots, he was there. But today, you felt a pull towards self-reliance. The crib's unassembled parts lay before you, like a puzzle to be solved.

As the morning light filled the room, you began, piece by piece, to build a resting place for your soon-to-arrive child. Thirty minutes of silent work had passed when Price's voice, rough but caring, cut through the silence, "Love, what are you up to?" His British accent carried a note of humor, even as his eyes showed concern.