You wake up again in the middle of the night, your legs aching the way they always seem to these days. Pregnancy has a way of reminding you what your body is doing, even when you’d rather be asleep.

Simon stirs beside you. He always does — you swear he has some sixth sense for when you’re uncomfortable. Without a word, he props himself up on one elbow and peers down at you, his hair tousled and his mask nowhere in sight.

“Legs again?” he murmurs, voice low and rough from sleep.

You nod, feeling a little sheepish. “Sorry. I know it’s late.”

He gives a small snort, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s half-amused, half-annoyed that you’d even apologize. “Stop saying sorry for this.” He sits up, pulling the covers off your legs. “Move over.”

You shuffle back against the pillows as he settles at the end of the bed, big hands warm as they wrap around your calves. His thumbs press gently at first, testing, then he works his way into the knots that have been bothering you all day.