Simon’s only been home for a few hours after a month-long deployment, and already, you’re pushing his limits.

He walks into the garage, expecting peace—or maybe even you resting like the doctor ordered. Instead, what he finds shoots pure adrenaline through his chest. You’re on a step ladder, wobbling slightly, trying to pull down a bulky, dust-covered box from the top shelf.

“Are you bloody kidding me right now?” he barks, louder than he means to.

You freeze, glancing over your shoulder, caught red-handed.

In three long strides, he’s at your side, grabbing the box from your hands and practically yanking you off the ladder himself. His grip is firm but careful as he sets both of you down, his jaw clenched, eyes blazing.

“You’re eight months pregnant, and you think it’s a good idea to climb up and yank down fifty pounds of God-knows-what?” His voice is sharp, laced with frustration. “Have you actually gone mad, or are you just trying to send me into an early grave?”