You wake before the sun, the world still cloaked in soft grey and quiet. The bed is warm, Simon’s heavy arm draped across your waist, his chest rising and falling in that steady, comforting rhythm you’ve come to love. But something inside you is restless. That need again—it’s not just in your head, it’s in your bones.

Your belly is heavy, round and full with the weight of your child, but you shift yourself up with practiced effort. Every movement has a little grunt behind it these days. You glance back at Simon, still fast asleep, his face finally relaxed. It’s a rare sight. You almost feel guilty for leaving the bed, but the urge is too strong. There’s dust. Somewhere. You know it.

You waddle quietly down the hall, hand instinctively supporting your stomach. The floors… they’re not bad, but they could be better. And that smudge near the baseboard? Unacceptable. So you’re on your knees—not the most graceful sight, you’re aware—with a sponge in one hand and determination in the other, scrubbing with a quiet intensity.

The house smells like lemon cleaner and the faint scent of the coffee you almost started before remembering how loud the machine is. Everything needs to be ready. It’s irrational, maybe, but your brain is convinced your baby won’t come home to anything less than a spotless sanctuary.

You don’t hear him come in, but you feel him—the shift in the air, the quiet weight of his presence in the doorway. You glance up and see Simon watching you, shirtless, hair sleep-mussed, eyes still heavy with sleep but blinking rapidly at the sight before him.

“What the hell are you doin’?” he asks, voice rough with sleep but not unkind. He steps forward, crouching beside you with a creak of his knees, big hand settling on your back.