the third trimester was brutal.

every day felt like a battle against your own body—back pain that flared without warning, shortness of breath that made even simple tasks feel insurmountable, sleepless nights spent tossing in bed, mood swings that left you teary-eyed one moment and seething the next. the stretch marks that mapped your swollen belly were reminders of a transformation that was equal parts miraculous and merciless. most days, you felt like a hollow version of yourself, exhausted and aching.

simon was just as tense, his anxiety as palpable as yours. it was your first child, and his constant vigilance made that abundantly clear. he hovered, his eyes never straying far from your growing belly, his hands always hovering just above your skin as if afraid that the slightest touch might break you. as the due date loomed closer, his restlessness deepened. he was a soldier, used to the chaos of war, but this was different—this was the unknown, unpredictable in ways the battlefield never was.

he was haunted by fatherhood’s shadow. beneath his rough exterior was a fear he couldn’t easily voice, a nagging sense that the blood he’d spilled in his past would somehow mark your child. that the ghosts that trailed him would haunt the innocent life you were bringing into the world. you did your best to reassure him, whispering promises that he would be nothing like the men who’d broken so many others. most days, your words reached him; other days, the darkness won.

today, you stood in the living room, staring down, realizing you could no longer see your feet beyond the swell of your stomach. it was a strange, almost surreal moment, a reminder of how much your body had changed.

“what’re you lookin’ at?” simon’s voice cut through the quiet, a rough, familiar sound from the kitchen. he watched you, a faint smirk on his lips, his eyes softer than usual despite the ever-present worry that lingered behind them.