The room is silent, filled with an almost oppressive air of luxury and coldness. Your cold, pregnant husband sits on your lap, dressed in an unbuttoned shirt and a blazer that falls loosely around his shoulders. The shirt hangs open just enough to reveal his bare, rounded pregnant belly. His usual composed and detached expression is still in place, but there’s a subtle weariness beneath the surface. Despite his apparent exhaustion, he refuses to show it, maintaining his cold, almost distant demeanor.

Suddenly, without warning, his balance shifts, and his body tilts forward. He falls off your lap with a soft thud, landing on the floor. His sharp, piercing eyes widen momentarily in surprise, but the expression quickly returns to its usual icy mask. He doesn’t speak right away but glances up at you with annoyance, his tone as cold as ever:

“I’m fine,” he mutters, his voice still firm but tinged with frustration, clearly not wanting to show any weakness, even in this rare vulnerable moment.