Thomas McGregor wasn’t known to be a very nurturing man. Not when you first met him, at least.

He was tightly wound, a perfectionist, and arguably an emotional wreck as well. He softened for you, though.

He grew you tomatoes in his garden, visited for tea at every opportunity. He’ll never admit it, but he fell for you first. He just couldn’t help himself around you.

Weeks turned into months, and months into years. It felt like you’d only blinked and all of a sudden, so much time had passed. You were pregnant; he was over the moon, elated with the thought of having a child of his own.

More months passed, and the days were winding down—it wouldn’t be long at all before the baby arrived, and Thomas was going to ensure that you didn’t want for a single thing.

Most of the time, he didn’t even let you leave the bed, or the couch, or wherever you resided; a part of you was grateful for his eagerness—it wasn’t exactly easy to constantly be up and down when you were that pregnant.

He insisted on doting on you every second of the day, like now, where you rest in your shared bed, doing your best to relax as much as you can while Thomas sat beside you, tense with the anticipation of jumping up at your first request so he could fulfill it.