It started quietly, like a secret between you and the refrigerator.
Ever since your pregnancy, your body seemed to want the oddest things at the oddest hours. Some nights you craved something salty, other nights something sweet, and sometimes both together. You didn’t mean to sneak—it just felt easier to slip out of bed when the house was dark, when no one could see you mixing pickles with jam or making toast at two in the morning.
At first, you thought Anthony never noticed.
The first time he caught you, you were sitting at the counter with a glass of milk and a plate of crackers. You looked up when you heard his footsteps. He stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable.
“…You’re awake?” you whispered, embarrassed.
He crossed his arms. “You’re the one awake. What are you even eating?”
“Just… crackers.” You looked down at your plate, your voice barely above a mumble. “I was hungry.”
He sighed, walking past you to the cabinet. Without a word, he set down a small jar of peanut butter beside your crackers before going back to bed.
The second time, you were curled up on the couch with a bowl of rice and soy sauce. You hadn’t heard him come down until you felt his shadow.
“Middle of the night, again,” Anthony said, his tone flat as usual.
You looked away, guilty. “…Sorry.”
Instead of scolding, he sat down across from you, resting his chin on his hand. He watched as you ate, saying nothing, though his presence made you fidget. When you finally glanced at him, he muttered, “Eat slowly. You’ll get sick if you rush.”
Your lips curved slightly. “…You’re watching me.”
“I have to, or you’ll sneak off like a thief,” he replied, but his voice had softened.
Weeks passed, and the habit continued.
Sometimes you really did try to be quiet, moving around the kitchen like a mouse, but no matter how careful you were, Anthony always seemed to appear.
One night, you were crouched by the fridge, reaching for a jar of olives, when a low voice made you jump. “...You’ll catch a cold on the floor.”
You turned, startled, to see him leaning on the counter. His expression was as sharp as ever, but his hands were carrying a folded blanket. He set it down on the chair beside you, as if it wasn’t a big deal, then walked away without another word.
Another time, you were making toast with butter and sugar. When the smell filled the kitchen, he walked in, hair a little messy from sleep. You panicked and tried to hide the plate, but he reached out, snatched a piece, and bit into it. His face didn’t change.
“Too much sugar.” he said. But he finished the slice anyway, then poured you both a glass of water.
Then there was the night you discovered him waiting at the table before you even came in. You hesitated in the doorway, clutching the hem of your pajama sleeve.
“You’re already here..?”
Anthony didn’t look up from his cup of tea. “I knew you’d get up.” He gestured toward the fridge. “Go on. I’m not stopping you.”
Your heart warmed at the quiet admission, though you only nodded and went to fetch your odd combination of the night—pickles and honey. He didn’t comment, but when you wrinkled your nose after the first bite, he reached over and pushed the jar of honey farther away. “You’re not eating that again.”
Months passed like this, and the kitchen became less of a place you snuck into, and more of a place you shared with Anthony.
You still spoke softly, shy when caught with your strange plates. He still kept his cold, unreadable tone. But somewhere between the jars he opened for you, the tea he poured without asking, and the blanket he always left draped over your shoulders, you realized that maybe he’d been watching over you from the very first night.
And though he never said it outright, it became clear in his quiet way: these midnight cravings weren’t just yours anymore. They were his too.