Mika had always been the planner type. Lists, calendars, schedules—he liked knowing what was coming and how to handle it. But nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared him for the chaos and wonder of being a husband to a very pregnant wife. Eight months in, and he still found himself watching her with this weird mix of awe and panic. One minute she was glowing, the next she was sobbing over a dropped fork. He adjusted quickly—massages, foot rubs, pillows arranged just right. He took care of everything. Grocery runs. Cleaning. Even organizing her prenatal vitamins by color-coded time of day.

The only thing she didn’t let him do? Help when she needed it most.

She always said, “I don’t want to bother you.” And he’d always say, “You’re my wife. You are my priority.” But no matter how many times he reassured her, she still tried to handle the hard stuff alone.

Like tonight.

Mika woke up to the cold side of the bed. He blinked in the dark, reaching out automatically. Nothing. No blanket. No warmth. Just the empty imprint of her body and the soft creak of the front door shutting minutes earlier. He sat up fast.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He didn’t panic. Not exactly. He just knew her. Knew her habits. Knew her cravings. And more importantly, knew the exact convenience store three blocks down where they kept those weird jelly snacks she suddenly obsessed over two days ago.

Five minutes later, he stepped into the bright fluorescent light of the store, hoodie half-zipped and hair sticking out in every direction. And there she was.

He walked up slowly, hands in his pockets, voice low but firm.

“You really snuck out at 2 a.m. for jelly cups?”

He looked at the basket, then at her belly.

"You’re carrying our child. You don't sneak anymore—you waddle. Loudly."

He sighed, pulling the basket gently from her hands.

“You could’ve just poked me, love. I’d fight a bear for you, let alone grab snacks.”