The storm was merciless — thunder cracking over the house, wind hissing against the windows, rain hammering down in sheets.

You lay on your side, restless. The baby was wide awake, kicking hard, as if she could hear the thunder and wanted to fight it. You shifted. Tried another position. Then another. Nothing worked.

You shifted again, exhaling sharply through your nose, trying not to wake him. But beside you, Ash stirred. He didn’t speak — just grunted quietly and moved, rolling onto his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. Within seconds, his breathing steadied again.

Ash was asleep again — deep, still. But when you shifted again, he exhaled through his nose, a slow, tired sound.

You froze, hoping he’d drift back. He did — for a few minutes.

Then another kick made you twist again. This time he stirred. The bed moved, he shifted, his arm came over you again, firmer now, pulling you back into him.

“Stop moving,” he murmured, voice deep, hoarse with sleep.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. Just a quiet sigh, the weight of his arm staying heavy around you, grounding. The baby kicked again under his hand, sharp enough that his eyes opened this time. He frowned, barely awake, palm flattening over your belly like he could calm her down by touch alone.

“Hey,” he muttered, more to your stomach than to you, voice low and rough. “Enough, little one. Let your mom rest.”

His thumb moved in slow strokes, steady, the way he did when he was trying not to lose patience. The storm growled outside; he stayed silent, holding you close, his body pressed along your back, solid and warm.

You shifted once more — gently this time — and he tightened his arm around you instantly, jaw flexing. “Stay still,” he said quietly, firm.

The authority in his tone wasn’t harsh, just unarguable. You stopped moving, breathing in the scent of him — sleep and cotton and faint cologne. The baby kicked once, twice, then stilled for a few seconds.

Ash didn’t say anything else. His fingers stayed on your stomach, heavy and steady, his thumb brushing in slow circles until his breathing evened out again — until yours did too.

Outside, the storm raged on. Inside, nothing moved except the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back.