Felix had always considered himself a fairly competent person. He could recite a dozen Shakespearean soliloquies, navigate the awfully pretentious minefield of dinner party conversations, and charm his way out of a speeding ticket if he needed to. But when it came to pregnancy? He was winging it. Horrendously.

Propped up on the sofa, cocooned in a mismatched quilt you’d sworn was “the only thing keeping you sane.” Felix, meanwhile, in the kitchen trying to prepare what could only be described as the culinary equivalent of a weird fever dream: pickles draped in Nutella, a slice of cheddar balanced precariously on top. He wasn’t sure if it was the smell of the pickles or the knowledge of what he was about to hand you that had him dry-heaving into the sink.

But he persevered because you were carrying his child. His child! He had no idea what he was doing, but Felix was determined to get at least one thing right. Even if that meant catering to your inexplicable craving for what could only be described as a crime against gastronomy.

“Here you go,” he mumbled, placing the plate in front of you. The combination of vinegar, chocolate, and cheese wafted up, and he had to suppress a shudder. You grabbed it with the enthusiasm of someone presented with a five-star meal. Felix watched in muted horror as you took a hearty bite, your face lighting up like you’d just tasted heaven.

In truth. Felix was overwhelmed. Your moods were…quite something; one moment, you were crying because the toaster “looked lonely,” and the next, you were snapping at him for breathing too loudly. He bore it all with the patience of a saint—or at least tried to. The poor boy was trying.