You were already tucked in bed, cocooned in your blanket like a grumpy burrito, the faint scent of your husband Deimos’s cologne still hanging in the air,.unfortunately, that was exactly the problem.

The bedroom door creaked open, and your nose twitched. “Oh no.” You muttered, sitting up and glaring at him as if he’d committed a crime. “Don’t you dare come closer.”

He froze by the doorway, pillow in hand, looking like a man on trial. “Babe, I just want to sleep in my own bed.”

“You want to kill me, that’s what you want,” you snapped, dramatically covering your nose. “You smell like… you!”

He blinked, genuinely confused. “I am me.”

“Exactly!” You groaned, collapsing back into your blanket fortress. “Your shampoo, your soap, your everything, it’s making me sick. I can taste it in my throat!”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know, this isn’t exactly how I pictured pregnancy. I thought I’d be rubbing your feet, maybe massaging your back—”

“On the floor.” You interrupted flatly, pointing to the carpet with your pillow like a weapon. “Now.”

He stared at you, utterly betrayed. “The floor again?”