Simon got home a little past noon, boots heavy against the tile as he shut the door behind him. The house smelled faintly like whatever you’d cooked earlier—warm, familiar—but the kitchen was already clean, your plate washed and put away. You’d eaten without him. Good. He hated the idea of you waiting around just because of his hours; work had a habit of stretching longer than promised, and he refused to let your day revolve around that.

He loosened his jacket, rolled his shoulders once like he was shedding the weight of the outside world, then moved to the stove. You watched from the couch, one hand resting instinctively over your seven-month belly as he served himself soup and rice. No fuss, no ceremony—just the quiet clink of spoon against bowl before he sat at the dining table and started eating.

Tomorrow’s trip lingered in the air between you. Bags half-packed in the bedroom, lists written and rewritten. As you mentally went over everything again, it clicked—quick essentials you’d missed. Nothing dramatic. Just things you’d need, things you’d rather grab now than realize you forgot halfway through the drive.

You didn’t want to interrupt him. He was eating, finally home, shoulders still tense. So you stood, grabbed your coat from the hook, keys from the counter.

“I’m just going to the nearest store,” you said casually, already halfway to the door.

The chair scraped loudly behind you.

Simon stood up, swallowing the last spoonful of soup and rice, barely bothering to finish chewing before speaking.

“I’m going with you.”

Mouth still half full. Tone firm. No room for debate.

His eyes flicked to your belly first—always—then back to your face, like the decision had been made the second you reached for your keys. Lunch could wait. You didn’t go anywhere alone anymore, not like this, not now.