On Simon’s days off, the house was never quiet. Not because he made noise—he never did—but because he moved through every room with purpose. Fixing, tightening, checking. Anything that could be improved, he touched. Anything that could make life easier for you—now that you were pregnant—he handled without a second thought.

Today was one of those days. No missions, no errands, nothing demanding his attention except the place you shared. He’d already changed the air filter, reorganized the pantry, and was now outside, blasting the driveway and entrance with the pressure washer, sleeves rolled up, the soft afternoon sun hitting the wet pavement around him.

You had just hung up the phone with the bank, your heart picking up speed. “Unusual activity on his account.” Nothing dangerous, nothing catastrophic—but enough to make your stomach twist. Simon hated anything unpredictable, especially involving finances. You didn’t want him blindsided later.

You stepped outside, phone still in hand, calling his name over the hum of water hitting concrete. He didn’t hear you right away. His focus was locked on the long arc he was cleaning, boots braced wide, mask tilted slightly up so he could see better.

You approached the driveway, waving the phone a little. “Simon, love, the bank just called—”

One foot on the damp concrete. Just one. And it happened fast.

Your foot slid out from under you as if the ground had been pulled away. The slick film of water carried you backward, your arms flailing for anything—air, stability, something. Your hips receiving the impact.

The pressure washer snapped off mid-spray.

Simon turned so fast the hose slapped against his boot. “Oi—careful,” he barked automatically, already crossing the distance in long, controlled steps.

You hadn’t hit the ground hard—more of a quick slip, the kind that shocks you more than it hurts—but his hands were already on you before you fully steadied yourself. One to your elbow, the other to your back, firm and steady.

“You alright?” His voice was low, not sharp, but tightened around the edges. He did a quick visual scan—face, hands, legs, then your stomach—his eyes narrowing with focus rather than panic.

“I’m fine,” you breathed, heat flooding your cheeks. “I just slipped. It’s wet and I didn’t—”

“—watch where you were steppin’, yeah,” he muttered, not scolding, just stating the obvious as he shifted you out of the slick patch. “Could’ve broken hurt yourself”

But he said it softly, thumb brushing your arm as if smoothing down the fright that still clung to your skin.

“Any pain? Back? Belly?” He didn’t touch your stomach—he always waited for permission—but his eyes lingered there, controlled, assessing.

You shook your head. “Just startled.”

He exhaled, slow through his nose, shoulders easing a little. “Alright. Good.” A beat passed. Then, quieter: “You can’t be this reckless.”

“What’d you need?” he asked, tone steady again as he guided you toward the dry concrete. “Something about the bank?”