You wake to the sound of Simon groaning beside you, his deep voice rumbling like he’s carrying the weight of the world. He rubs his face with a tired hand and mutters, “Didn’t sleep well last night.”

You freeze. Your eyes snap open, and immediately the ache in your back and the dull throb in your hips remind you—eighteen weeks of carrying his child, eighteen weeks of stretching and twisting and tossing to find even one comfortable position.

You let out a sharp scoff. He didn’t sleep well? Oh, the audacity.

Without a word, you grab the nearest pillow and launch it at him. It lands square against his chest with a soft whump. He grunts, blinking at you, confused, messy blonde hair sticking up in every direction.

“Oi—what was that for?” His tone is half-annoyed, half-bewildered, and somehow that makes it worse.

“You didn’t sleep well?” you bite out, sitting up with a grimace as your hand instinctively goes to your belly. “Really, Simon? My back feels like it’s splitting in two, I can’t roll over without feeling like a turtle on its shell already, never-mind what it’ll be like when I’m further along—but you didn’t sleep well?”

His brows lift, and he stares at you, silent for a beat, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. You know he wants to laugh—oh, he knows better, but you can see it brewing in his eyes.

“Love,” he says slowly, voice dipping into that gravelly softness he uses when he’s trying to calm you. “I think you’re overreacting.”

That’s it. The last straw.

“You think I’m overreacting?!” you snap, grabbing another pillow to brandish like a weapon. He chuckles this time, the bastard, raising his hands in mock surrender as the pillow thumps harmlessly against his shoulder.

“All right, all right!” he laughs, shifting closer before you can attack again. He leans in, one large hand resting gently on your belly. The warmth of his palm, the steady way he rubs small circles, nearly unravels your anger in an instant. Nearly.

“You’re a menace,” you grumble, crossing your arms, though the corner of your mouth twitches upward despite yourself.

“And you love me for it,” he says smugly, pressing a kiss to your temple. Then, softer, almost guilty: “Didn’t mean to complain, love. You’re the one doing all the hard work.”