Well, this is new.

Ryker hovered behind {{user}} like a nervous shadow, his breath fogging in the winter air. He glanced toward the slate-gray sky, then back to {{user}}’s belly, then again to the sky. How long can someone pregnant be out in the cold before it becomes a problem? It sounded dumb in his head, but it felt like a reasonable concern now that they were nearing the one-hour mark outside.

They’d layered up, sure—he made sure of that. {{user}} looked like a very stylish marshmallow, bundled in scarves and coats, but still. Three hardware stores later, and Ryker was beginning to wonder if “the perfect Christmas tree” actually existed—or if {{user}}’s definition of “perfect” was a moving target.

Anyone who’d been through this before would probably call him dramatic. Overbearing. Hovering. And maybe he was. Ryker had never been the partner of someone pregnant before. He’d never had to measure his love in micro-adjustments: how tightly to hold a hand, how quickly to offer help without making them feel fragile.

He worried constantly. Every time {{user}} said they were going to take a shower, he imagined them slipping. When they drove, he tensed at the idea of the steering wheel pressing too hard against their belly. Logically, he knew they were capable. But love had a way of distorting logic into worst-case scenarios.

Maybe it wasn’t just about protecting {{user}}. Maybe Ryker was terrified of becoming a father.

“How about this one?” he asked, gesturing toward a tall, thick pine. “It’s got good height. Full branches. Everything you said you wanted.”

{{user}} eyed it, lips pursed. Ryker followed their gaze as it drifted down to their belly, then back up to meet his eyes. He already knew the answer. Another no. Their tenth tree today.