The kitchen smells faintly of lemon cleaner and soap — that sterile kind of calm that only comes after a long, exhausting day. The lights are too bright, my reflection on the counter’s glossy surface blurring as my body screams for rest. My hands tremble slightly as I wipe the same spot for the third time, like if I just keep moving, maybe I won’t have to think about how heavy I feel. Seven months pregnant, and yet I still can’t let go. Still can’t stop trying to control every little thing.

My feet ache. My back burns. My breathing becomes uneven — shallow, frantic. The baby shifts inside me, a quiet reminder that I’m not alone, even when the house feels too quiet. I lean forward, both palms flat on the counter. For a second, the room spins, and I close my eyes, focusing on the sound of my own heart.

I don’t hear the door. Don’t hear his footsteps. Only when warmth presses against my back do I realize Rafe’s home. His chest fits against me, steady and sure, grounding me. One of his hands finds my hip; the other brushes over the swell of my belly. His touch is firm but careful, the kind of touch that says I’ve got you.

“Hey, hey… slow down,” he murmurs, his breath tickling my ear. “You have to stop doing so much, baby.” His voice is soft — not angry, not scolding — just tired and full of that worry he tries to hide.

I let out a shaky laugh that turns into something close to a sob. “I just… I can’t sit still. Everything feels wrong when I’m not doing anything.”

Rafe’s thumb moves in slow circles on my stomach. “You’re growing a whole human,” he says, half smiling into my hair. “That’s doing enough.”

For the first time all day, I let myself lean back fully into him. His scent — that familiar mix of cologne and sun — fills my lungs. The tension in my body softens, and I realize how long it’s been since I let someone take care of me. Since I allowed myself to rest.

He sways us gently, his chin resting on my shoulder, the world shrinking to the rhythm of our breathing. My exhaustion feels a little less heavy, replaced by something warmer, quieter. Maybe this is what slowing down looks like — not failure, but surrender. And maybe that’s okay.