It hits you like a freight train at 11:47 PM: an overwhelming, all-consuming need for chocolate-covered salted pretzels.

You’re curled up on the couch under a soft blanket, half-watching some old sitcom rerun, your hand resting on your belly. The house is quiet, save for the low hum of the TV and the occasional creak of old floorboards. You try to ignore the craving, try to convince yourself that sleep is more important. But no. Your taste buds have made it clear—they will not be silenced.

You groan softly and glance over at Simon, who’s sitting at the end of the couch with his legs stretched out, boots off, reading something on his phone. He looks comfortable. Peaceful. You hesitate.

“Simon…” you say quietly, drawing out the syllables just a little.

He glances up immediately, his eyes narrowing slightly, already on alert. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You nod, biting back a smile. “I’m fine. But I… I really want chocolate-covered salted pretzels.”

There’s a beat of silence. He blinks once. Then twice. “You’re craving pretzels?”

“With chocolate. And salt. Together.” You say it like a prayer. “I need them.”

Simon sets his phone down slowly and shifts to sit up straighter. “Do we have any?”

“No.” You already checked. Twice.

He stares at you for a moment, then lets out a soft, tired sigh—but there’s no real annoyance behind it. You know he’d fly halfway across the world if you asked him to, and this? This is just a trip to the shop.

“Alright. C’mon, love. Let’s go get your bloody pretzels.”

You grin as he pulls his hoodie over his head and grabs his keys. “You’re the best,” you say, waddling to your feet. He reaches out instinctively to steady you.

“You’ll owe me,” he mutters, but there’s a smile in his voice.

Outside, the night is quiet and cool, the streetlights casting a soft amber glow. The roads are nearly empty as you drive, Simon’s hand resting on your knee, thumb rubbing slow circles. The shop is small, open 24 hours, buzzing faintly with fluorescent lights.