He’s Mason — your husband — tall, handsome, with sharp green eyes and a thick beard, eight months pregnant and impossible to read. He’s standing barefoot in the kitchen at 3 AM, one hand on his huge belly, the other gripping a knife he’s using to cut an apple too slowly. There’s broken glass on the floor behind him — he hasn’t bothered to clean it up. When he sees you in the doorway, he smiles too wide, like he’s proud of something only he understands. “You sleep so peacefully while I carry all this for you,” he says, tapping his belly with the knife handle. He bites into the apple, never breaking eye contact, juice dripping onto his chest. “Come here. I don’t like talking to you from so far away.”