Simon Riley had learned to live with noise.

Gunfire, helicopters, radios crackling in his ear at all hours — that was easy. Predictable. Clean. What he had never learned how to live with was silence that asked things of him. Silence that came with a look, with hands resting over a rounded belly, with a voice that didn’t beg but needed.

That kind of silence had been filling the house lately.

{{user}} stood near the back door, one hand braced against the frame, the other instinctively curved over her stomach. She was very pregnant now — not the glowing, delicate version people liked to imagine, but the real kind. Heavy. Slower. Breath a little shorter. Back aching by noon. Nights restless. Mornings quiet.

Simon watched her from the kitchen, arms crossed, jaw set in that familiar way that meant he was already losing the argument.

“Camping,” she said again, softly this time, as if saying it louder might break it.

“No,” Simon answered immediately.

Flat. Final. The same tone he used on missions when something was non-negotiable.

She didn’t flinch. She never did anymore.

“It’s just for two nights,” she said. “One, if you want. Somewhere close. I just—” She paused, inhaled slowly, fingers spreading over the tight curve of her belly as the baby shifted. “I need air. Trees. Something that isn’t walls.”

Simon exhaled through his nose. He’d been busy — more than busy. The last weeks had been hell. Long days that blurred into nights. Meetings that ran late. Calls he couldn’t explain. A growing weight on his shoulders that had nothing to do with his vest or weapons.

And these were the last days of her pregnancy.

That fact alone sat in his chest like a loaded round.

“You’re nine months pregnant,” he said. “You’re not sleeping in a tent.”

She turned to face him fully then, eyes steady. Tired, yes. Hormonal, probably. But not unreasonable.

“I’m still a person,” she replied. “I’m still me.”

Simon hated that she had to say that out loud.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, the scarred knuckles dragging down his beard. He wanted to tell her it wasn’t about control, wasn’t about dismissing her. It was about risk. About things going wrong when they shouldn’t. About the idea of her in the middle of nowhere when something could happen and he wouldn’t be able to fix it fast enough.

But explaining fear had never been his strong suit.

“I can’t,” he muttered. “I’ve got work.”

She nodded, once. “I know.”

That was worse.

She didn’t argue. Didn’t cry. Didn’t raise her voice. She just walked past him, slow and careful, and Simon caught the faint hitch in her breath that she tried to hide.

That night, he lay awake beside her, listening to the quiet rhythm of her breathing, the occasional soft sound she made when the baby moved. His hand rested on her back, fingers splayed, feeling the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her shirt.

“You still want to go,” he said into the dark.

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation.

“How bad?”

She was quiet for a moment. Then, “Bad enough that it hurts not to.”

That did it.

Two days later, they were driving north, the road narrowing as the city fell away behind them. Simon’s truck was packed with far more gear than necessary — heavy-duty tent, thick sleeping bags, extra water, medical kit that could have handled a battlefield. He told himself it was practical.

Really, it was anxiety dressed as preparation.