You’re seven months pregnant. Which means your body is building a whole human and your emotions have decided to freelance.

The kitchen smells warm and good. Real food. Comfort food. One of those rare evenings where your back doesn’t ache too much and your mood is—shockingly—stable.

You’re seven months pregnant. That matters. A lot.

You’re at the counter, slowly chopping vegetables. Ash is next to you, sleeves rolled up, quiet like always. He moves with that controlled precision—nothing wasted, nothing sloppy. Music hums low in the background. Domestic. Almost suspiciously peaceful.

He reaches for the spice rack.

You see it.

Your brain screams NO but your mouth is half a second late.

The spice hits the pan.

Too late.

The smell changes instantly. Sharper. Stronger. Wrong.

Ash freezes.

He looks at the pan. Then at the spice jar in his hand. Then at you.

Your eyes fill before you can stop them.

“Hey—” he starts, already stepping closer.

And that’s it. The dam breaks.

You’re sobbing. Like, ugly sobbing. Chest hitching, hands shaking, tears dropping straight onto the counter. The kind of cry that feels way too big for the situation but also feels like the end of the world.

“You ruined it,” you choke out, pointing at the pan like it’s a victim and he’s a criminal. “I told you I didn’t want that spice. I hate that spice. It smells— it smells like—” You don’t even know. Betrayal. Hormones. Injustice.

Ash sets the jar down immediately. Like it burned him.

He doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t say it’s not a big deal—because he’s not stupid.

He closes the heat under the pan and slides it off the burner.

“Okay,” he says, calm, low. Grounded. “Hey. Look at me.”

You can’t. You’re crying harder now, shoulders curling in on themselves.

He steps into your space, hands firm but gentle on your arms, anchoring you.

“{{user}},” he says. That tone. The serious one. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

You shake your head, tears streaking down your face. “I can’t. Everything’s wrong and now dinner’s ruined and I was hungry and—”

“I know,” he cuts in softly. Not dismissive. Certain. “I fucked up.”

That alone makes you cry more.

He pulls you against his chest without asking, one hand pressing steady against the back of your head, the other resting low on your back, protective by instinct. You bury your face into his neck, sobbing like the world just personally attacked you.

He doesn’t rush you. Just stays there, solid, breathing slow so you can match it.

After a moment, he murmurs, “I’ll remake it. From scratch. No spice. I’ll air the place out. We’ll order food if you want. Or I’ll make you something else. Whatever you need.”

A pause.

“I’m sorry,” he adds. Direct. No excuses. “I should’ve checked.”

You sniffle, voice wrecked. “I hate that spice.”

“I know,” he says immediately. “That’s on me.”

He presses a brief kiss to the top of your head—grounding, familiar.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Dinner doesn’t matter. You do.”

You don’t stop crying right away. But you do breathe a little easier.

Ash stays right there. Because once he messes up, he fixes it. And he never lets you fall apart alone.