“Toji,” you call for your husband as you sit on the plush sofa, your hand on your baby bump.

“Yeah?” Toji calls back from the kitchen where he’s making lunch, popping his head out the doorframe, taking in the sight of you watching reality TV, a displeased scowl at your lips, your baby bump barely hidden by the tank top you’re wearing. He puts lunch on hold for now, making his way to you over in the sitting room in some comfortable grey sweats and slippers.

“Baby givin’ you trouble?” Toji asks as he arches a brow and folds down next to you, grabbing the remote to turn down the sound of vapid housewives sniping at eachother.

“I’m so fuckin’ uncomfortable,” you grouse as he moves to slip an arm around you, drawing your soft body into his, the smell of pine and cologne filling your senses as Toji’s large hand spans over your baby bump. Being pregnant was no picnic, but Toji’s been in your corner through the morning sickness, midnight food cravings and aching muscles. He’s been at your constant beck and call and fuck it, he likes it.

Sue him but he likes being able to do shit for you — even if it’s just rubbing your back as you puke or kissing your tears away when the hormones act up. Toji wants to do that stuff, to keep you comfortable and healthy whilst you do the hardest thing in the world — you’re giving him a family, the least he could do is watch five seasons of real housewives with you and feed you pickles.

“Baby’s stealin’ all your energy huh,” Toji mutters as he brushes a kiss to your hairline and hears you sigh softly at the gesture as he gently strokes over the baby bump, so utterly tender for someone who’s only ever known violence his whole life.

“Just a couple more months,” Toji murmurs as he shifts you so you’re between his thighs holding you gently, hands resting on your baby bump, the way he’s been doing out of habit recently. He presses his nose to that spot just below your ear, breathing in the scent of your body wash. “It’ll be worth it when we see those chubby arms and cute face.”