Jason was used to a certain level of destruction in his life—explosions, high-speed chases, being shot at on rooftops. But nothing, nothing, prepared him for the war zone his apartment had become in the last trimester of his wife's pregnancy.

It started with the crumbs. At first, he thought maybe something small had exploded. Like a bag of chips. Or a raccoon with a vendetta.

There was a suspicious trail of cheddar-dust footprints leading away from their bedroom, winding through the hallway like some twisted snack Hansel-and-Gretel breadcrumb path.

Jason narrowed his eyes.

“No.”

He followed the trail with grim determination, stepping over a half-eaten granola bar and what might’ve once been a peanut M&M—now melted into the hardwood like a crime scene.

She was hiding.

Correction: His wife, nine months pregnant and very much on doctor-ordered snack restriction after the Great Heartburn Incident of last week, was hiding in the baby’s unfinished nursery.

He found her in the far corner, half-buried behind a stack of plush giraffes, cradling a suspiciously empty bag of Cheez-Its with the guiltiest expression he’d ever seen on a human face.

Jason crossed his arms and stared.

She froze mid-crunch.

"Hi,” she said brightly. A crumb fell from her lower lip. “This isn’t what it looks like.”