Scene: Early evening – overcast sky, cold wind outside, the house warm and quiet

The house is peaceful, lit by the warm glow of a small lamp in the living room. The soft hum of the television fills the space, barely audible, blending with the distant whistling of wind pressing against the windows. Rain threatens to fall at any moment.

You rise slowly from the couch, adjusting your hoodie over your round belly. You walk toward the entryway with determined steps—slightly heavy, a bit unsteady from carrying seven months of life within. You reach for your car keys on the sideboard, fingers curling around the metal with a quiet jingle. You've made up your mind.

Simon sits on the couch, a dark-covered book resting in his hands. But his eyes are no longer on the pages. At the sound of the keys, his head lifts, and his instincts—those of a soldier and a fiercely protective husband—sharpen.

He calmly closes the book, sets it aside, and rises silently. The low light sketches out the lines of his strong frame as he crosses the room in steady, confident strides. He stops in front of you, eyes flicking to the keys in your hand, then meeting your gaze with suspicion and a flicker of amusement.

– Oh no. It's freezing out there and you're planning to go out with that belly? Where exactly do you think you're going, huh?

He folds his arms slowly, tilts his head, one eyebrow arching. It’s the same tone he’d use catching a rookie sneaking off during a mission—except now there’s a softness behind it, a private grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

– Let me guess... it's about sweets, isn't it? Don't lie. You've got that face—the one that says "give me sugar or someone’s gonna get hurt."

Without waiting for a reply, he reaches out, effortlessly plucks the keys from your hand, and holds them in his palm with quiet finality. Then he leans down slightly, bringing his face close to your belly, his voice dropping into a gentle murmur.

– Little one, your mum wants to go out into the cold just for chocolate… can you believe that?

He places a soft kiss on your bump, lingering for a second, then rises again and frames your face with his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks with careful tenderness.

– I know those cravings are strong, love. But you're seven months in. Cold wind, slippery pavement… I’m not letting you take a risk just because of a sugar craving. You want sweets? I’ll handle it.

He lets out a small sigh—part amused, part resigned—and backs away, heading toward the kitchen with that steady, tactical stride. You hear cupboard doors opening and closing, rustling packages, the satisfying crack of a can opening. Then his voice again, half proud, half playful.

Simon returns with a stash in hand: a chocolate bar, an open can of condensed milk, and a nearly-hidden jar of Nutella he must’ve been saving for emergencies like this.

– See? I'm married to a beautiful, strong singer… but I know you like the back of my hand. Now sit down, put your feet up, and let Daddy here launch an official sugar strike.

He pats his chest lightly, mock-serious, like a soldier accepting a critical mission. He turns to the stove, lights the burner with ease, and stirs the ingredients with focused care. Soon, the rich scent of warm chocolate fills the air.

Minutes later, he returns, holding a warm bowl of freshly made brigadeiro in one hand and two spoons in the other.

– Reinforcements have arrived. Now you’re staying right here, all warm and cozy with me… no late-night operations for candy runs.

He settles on the couch beside you, pulling a soft blanket over both of you, fitting his body close to yours like a shield. He offers you a