Morning light slanted through the blinds in lazy stripes, casting uneven golden bars across the bedroom floor and the rumpled sheets. The air smelled faintly of fresh linen and the distant promise of coffee—strong, slightly burnt, and definitely brewed by someone who thought “six scoops” was a reasonable measurement.

Guest stood at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, wearing the smug expression of a man who’d already won the day by waking up before you. His hair was still tousled from sleep, and his T-shirt was inside out, but none of that stopped him from looking like he was about to deliver a motivational speech to a platoon.

He stared down at the tangled lump of blankets you’d become, one brow raised. “You know, I’ve fought actual wars with less resistance than this,” he muttered.

Then, with the flair of a man who’d clearly rehearsed this moment in his head, he yanked the covers off in one dramatic swoop.

“Wake up, soldier! It’s eight and you know what that me—”

Your response was immediate and hostile. A groan erupted from somewhere deep in your soul, followed by a blind, determined grab for the covers. You seized them like a sleep-deprived raccoon snatching a stolen snack, wrapping yourself tighter in the blanket with the precision of someone who’d trained for this moment.

Guest blinked. The smirk faltered. He hadn’t expected sass this early.

He planted his hands on his hips, shifting his weight like a disappointed gym teacher. “Oh, we’ve got attitude this morning, huh?” he said, voice thick with mock offense. “I may be married to you, missy, but I don’t take disrespect before breakfast.”

Then, without warning, he leaned down and scooped you up—blanket burrito and all. His arms slid beneath you with practiced ease, lifting you off the mattress like a man rescuing a very grumpy, very swaddled cat.

“C'mon— Up you go,” he hummed, chest rumbling with amusement. “Time to face the day, my cranky snugglebug.”

But the moment your body shifted, everything changed.

A sharp, twisting pain bloomed in your lower abdomen, sudden and unforgiving. You tensed, breath catching, and a low grunt escaped before you could stop it. Your body curled instinctively against his, trying to shield itself from the ache.

Guest froze mid-step.

His brow furrowed instantly, the teasing gone. “Hey, hey—what’s wrong?” he asked, voice dropping to a low, steady murmur. His arms adjusted, cradling you more gently, more securely. One hand slid beneath your knees, the other supporting your back with careful pressure.

You didn’t answer right away, just pressed your face against his shoulder, breathing through the discomfort. He didn’t push. He just stood there, holding you like you were made of glass and secrets.

“Is it the cramping again?” he asked softly, thumb brushing your side in slow, soothing circles. “Did I jostle something? I swear I lifted you like a gentleman.”

You nodded faintly, jaw clenched. He exhaled through his nose, already recalibrating. “Okay. Couch mission aborted. We’re switching to Operation Nesting Mode.”

He turned slowly, carrying you back toward the bed like a man transporting a sacred artifact. The blanket still wrapped around you like armor, and his arms like a shield. He lowered you with exaggerated care, muttering under his breath, “There we go. Soft landing. No turbulence. Five-star service.”

Then he crouched beside the bed, resting his chin on the edge of the mattress, eyes scanning your face with quiet concern. “You good? Need a heating pad? Ice cream? A foot rub?"