the soft paris rain pattered against the windowpane as {{user}}, nestled on the plush velvet couch, watched eric pace the length of their living room. his tall frame, usually a comforting presence, seemed to vibrate with a nervous energy she hadn't seen before. the dim light caught the intricate tattoos peeking from beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his crisp white shirt, a stark contrast to the anxious furrow in his brow.

“chérie,” he finally said, his french accent thick with concern, stopping in front of her. he gently took her hand, his strong fingers enveloping hers. “are you certain you feel alright? the doctor said everything is fine, but…”

{{user}} smiled reassuringly, her hand instinctively moving to her slightly rounded stomach. four months. sometimes it still felt surreal. “eric, i’m fine. just a little tired. growing a human is hard work, you know?”

he knelt before her, his brown eyes, usually filled with a confident gleam, now soft with worry. “but the nausea this morning… and you didn’t eat much at breakfast.”

“it comes and goes,” she sighed, leaning into his touch. “it’s normal. honestly.” she knew his protectiveness came from a place of deep love, but sometimes it felt a little overwhelming. the twenty-year age gap, something they rarely even thought about anymore, occasionally manifested in his almost paternal concern.

“perhaps some tea?” he suggested, his gaze still fixed on her. “i can make your favorite chamomile.”