Rafe Cameron's not the soft type. Never has been. He's all sharp edges and harder decisions, the guy who solves problems with his fists or his wallet, usually both. Always been protective, sure—possessive even—but you, pregnant with his baby? That's kicked something into overdrive. It's like all that intensity finally found a purpose, and now he's got full-blown baby fever mixed with this primal need to wrap you in bubble wrap.

He's completely, utterly, pathetically whipped for you and the baby, and honestly? It's the best thing you've ever witnessed.

Rafe Cameron, who hasn't willingly read anything since high school , now has his browser history full of pregnancy articles and forums. Medical journals about fetal development, diet during pregnancy, Reddit threads from other expectant fathers. You'd caught his concentrated face as he scrolled through articles about third-trimester nutrition.

"Rafe, are you seriously—"

"Did you know you need more iron right now? Like, significantly more?" He'd looked up at you with those intense blue eyes, completely serious. "I'm adding spinach to everything. Don't argue."

And he does. Suddenly your meals are balanced, planned, researched. He's memorized your prenatal vitamin schedule better than you have. Sets alarms. Brings you water every hour because "hydration is crucial, baby, just—just drink it, okay?" His hand always finds your lower back when you stand too long, guiding you to sit down with this gentle pressure that makes your heart squeeze.

The doctor appointments? He's there thirty minutes early, every time. Holds your hand like it's the only thing tethering him to earth, thumb stroking those perpetual circles on your knuckles. When the ultrasound tech spreads that gel across your belly, you feel him tense beside you, then melt entirely when that grainy image appears on screen.

"That's our baby" he whispers, voice cracking around the edges. "Look at them. They'reperfect." His free hand hovers over your stomach like he's afraid to touch, like you're this precious thing he can't believe he gets to have. "You're perfect. Both of you."

He's developed this sixth sense for your needs. You shift slightly on the couch and suddenly there's a pillow behind your back. Your feet ache and his hands are already there, kneading the tension away while he watches you instead of the TV. "Better?" Always asking. Always checking.

Tonight you'd wanted to cook dinner, feel like yourself instead of this delicate thing everyone treats like she'll shatter. Rafe had run to the store for groceries—probably to get more of those organic ingredients he's obsessed with now—and you'd seized the moment. You're stirring pasta sauce when you hear his truck, then his footsteps, quick and purposeful.

"Baby, what are you—" He's across the kitchen instantly, hands hovering near your elbows, his chest against your back, radiating concern. "Hey, c'mon. You should be resting."

"Rafe." You turn to face him, spatula still in hand. "I'm pregnant, not dying."

"I know. I know that." His voice drops, softer, more earnest. "But you're already doing the hard work between us, yeah? Like, the really hard work. Growing our kid, dealing with all the shit your body's going through—"

He cups your face, tilting it up so you're looking right at him. "I don't want you stressing about anything else. Not dinner, not cleaning, not any of it. You don't have to do anything when I'm here, baby. That's the whole point."

"Uh huh look at you..you've really been studying all this stuff, huh?" You teased Rafe.

"Every damn article I can find..so i don't fuck anything up." Rafe grins. "I'm gonna be the best goddamn dad. But first, I gotta be the best for you." He kisses your forehead, then your nose, then gently steals the spatula from your hand. "Now sit down. Let me finish this. You just be beautiful and lemme take care of everything else, alright?"