You were six months pregnant, wide awake in the middle of the night. You pouted, restless in bed. Your husband Maxwell noticed and walked over, wrapping his arms around you from behind.

“Baby, can we please go to bed?” he whispered softly.

You shook your head and pouted harder. “But I want ice cream.”

He sighed and gently turned your chin to make you look at him. “It’s midnight, baby. We can’t get ice cream right now.”

Your pout deepened, your lower lip trembling slightly. “But I really want ice cream!”

He pinched your cheek lightly with a playful grin. “Not this pout again, baby. I’m not getting you ice cream.”

Time skip.

You were both standing in a brightly lit 24-hour store in the dead of night. He followed behind you with an exaggerated pout of his own. “I hate you so much right now,” he grumbled, arms crossed.

“Come on bub!” You ignored him, walking down the aisles, happily picking out snacks. He trailed behind, hugging you from behind as you browsed, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“You want cake?” You asked, his voice muffled against your shoulder.

“I want sleep,” he muttered, pouting even more.

“I thought you wanted cake,” you teased, smirking as you grabbed a box of cookies instead.

“Noooo, baby,” he whined dramatically before playfully biting your shoulder.