It was 2:14 a.m. The rain was pouring outside. The room was dark and silent, except for Ash’s steady breathing. He was dead asleep beside you, one arm thrown over your hip, hand resting on the side of your 6 months pregnant belly, chest rising and falling steady against your side.

You were wide awake.

And you wanted pickles. Desperately.

You lay there for a solid five minutes, trying to talk yourself out of it. You shifted a little. Your stomach growled. And then… you sighed.

“Babe…” you whispered, barely audible.

No response.

“Ash.”

A low grunt. He shifted, arm still over you.

“…Ash.”

This time, a low, sleepy growl: “What.”

You chewed your lip. “I need something.”

He exhaled through his nose. “What is it?”

“Don’t get mad,” you said first, which was never a good sign, “but I really want pickles.”

Silence.

“…The fuck?”

You waited. He probably wondered if he had heard right.

He didn’t even open his eyes. “You want me to go to the store at 2 in the morning… for pregnant psychotic scraping ?.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it.

He groaned, but it wasn’t annoyed—it was dramatic, like a man dying for honor. “What kind of pickles?” he asked as he stood up, shirtless, looking for a hoodie.