“Hey, what’re you doing?”

Daichi slides his hands under your tummy, lifting your bump; the pressure in your lower back is lifted, prompting a sigh of relief.

Ever since he found out you were pregnant, Daichi hasn’t let you do so much as dress yourself. He’s at your beck and call, your personal chaperone, your endlessly devoted husband.

You tried cooking dinner while he was at work, only for him to come home early, sliding his hands over your skin and planting kisses along your neck.

“You couldn’t wait for me to get home, sweetheart?” he asks, though the smell of food is beyond tempting. He tries to sound stern, “I do all this, remember? You don’t do a damn thing around this house with my baby in you.”