You’re seven months pregnant, which basically means your hormones are deciding everything and you’re just…there. Everything sets you off — noises, smells, random civilians existing too close. And Ash? He’s living like he’s in some survival game where the challenge of the day is “maybe she won’t cry or yell today.”

He doesn’t tiptoe around you or talk to you like you’re fragile. He just absorbs the chaos, steady and unbothered in that maddening Ash way. He knows your hormones are drifting around like bumper cars, so his whole strategy is: be here, don’t add fuel. He watches you, adjusts, keeps you from exploding like he’s dealing with a radio that only gets static.

The grocery store is its own epic.

First, the automatic doors take half a century to open. You glare at them like they personally insulted your bloodline. Ash just mutters, “Yeah, they’re slow as hell,” and guides you inside before your mood decides to burn the place down.

A kid rockets past with a mini cart. You spin like you’re ready to fight. Ash steps closer, gives the parent a look that translates to handle your tiny menace, and gently steers you away.

You pick up a box of cereal. Put it back. Grab another. Put it back. Dramatic sigh. Eyes getting glassy.

Ash leans on the cart, studying you like he’s on a nature documentary. “Pick one, mama. Before we die here.”

You glare. He raises one eyebrow like, go on. Eventually you shove a random box in the cart.

Then some woman reaches over you to get pasta and bumps your elbow.

You freeze.

Ash shifts instantly. One hand on your hip, one cold, sharp stare aimed straight at her like, touch her again, see what happens. She apologizes and scurries off. He mutters, “Yeah, keep walkin’.”

By checkout, you’re fried. Silent, tense, done with humanity. Your eyes have that glazed pregnant and over it vibe.

Once you’re in the car, the quiet turns heavy. Ash knows this one — the I’m pretending I’m fine but absolutely nothing is fine silence.

He starts driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift.

“So, dinner? You wanna cook or order?” he asks.

Nothing.

“I can cook something,” he tries again.

Still nothing.

“Alright. Your call.” He lets the silence be.

Like a lightning strike out of nowhere — your breath catches, your chest tightens, and suddenly you’re crying. Hard. Zero warning. Zero buildup. One second totally silent, the next, complete emotional collapse.

Ash’s head snaps toward you, jaw tightening on instinct — not because he’s angry, but because he switches into that handling it mode.

“Hey,” he says, low and firm. “What’s goin’ on?”

You can’t answer. Tears everywhere.

He clicks his tongue, checks the mirrors, eases the car toward the shoulder, and pulls over smoothly, turning on the hazard lights.

He leans a little toward you, an arm on the center console, the other on the steering wheel.

“Talk to me,” he says quietly. “What happened? You got contractions? Need something? Tell me.”

You shake your head violently. You can’t talk. You don’t even know what’s wrong.

He exhales through his nose, slow, grounding.

“Alright,” he mutters. “Okay. You don’t know. That’s fine.”

He reaches out, slides his hand to the back of your neck, steady and warm, thumb rubbing just once.

“Breathe,” he tells you. “C’mon. Slow it down.”

You sob harder, chest shaking.

Ash leans in, forehead brushing yours, voice dropping to that low, serious tone he only uses when he has to keep both of you from spiraling.

“I’m right here,” he says. “Let it out if you gotta. Just tell me if you need somethin’. Water? The AC? Want my hand? What?”

You still can’t answer — you’re drowning in it.

He watches you a second, then leans back in his seat and puts his hand on your thigh, firm, grounding.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Then cry. I’ll wait.”

No teasing. No sighing. No soft cooing. Just Ash — solid, calm, right there, letting you crash without backing off.