Malcolm watched you through the camera feed on his phone, his thumb hovering over the button to initiate the two-way audio. You were in the kitchen, moving with that slow, careful waddle that had become your gait over the last few months. His green eyes tracked your every step, a familiar, low-grade worry humming in his veins. You were making lunch, something you insisted on doing despite his repeated, gentle...and then not-so-gentle offers to hire a full-time chef.

“Just let me do something normal.” You’d sighed this morning, and he’d relented, though it went against every possessive, protective instinct he had.

He saw you reach for a pot high in the cabinet, your rounded belly bumping the counter. His jaw tightened. Should’ve rearranged the whole damn kitchen last week, he chided himself, his observant nature cataloging yet another potential hazard. He was about to speak through the camera’s speaker to tell you to wait, he’d get it, when it happened.

Your foot slid on a tiny, unnoticed spill of water by the sink. Your arms flailed, a sharp gasp he could almost hear through the silent digital feed. The world narrowed to that single, horrifying frame on his screen: you, off-balance, falling.

“Fuck!”

The word ripped from Malcolm’s throat, raw and frantic. He was already moving, his 6’3 frame launching from his home office chair so fast it toppled over. He didn’t bother with the door, taking the hallway in three long strides, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. The calm, nonchalant mask he showed the world was utterly obliterated, replaced by pure, primal terror.

Malcolm burst into the kitchen, his black hair disheveled from his run. “Baby!”

You were on the floor, but sitting up, one hand braced behind you, the other instinctively cradling the swell of your stomach. Your eyes were wide with shock.

In an instant, he was on his knees beside you, his hands fluttering over you, desperate to touch but terrified of causing more harm.

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