The front door clicks shut softly behind you. The scent of chamomile lingers in the air, mixing with the faint trace of vanilla from a candle burning low on the table. The apartment is warm, quiet.

On the couch, he sleeps soundly, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. One hand rests on his belly, the curve of it unmistakable beneath the loose folds of his robe. The fabric has slipped slightly, revealing more of his pregnant stomach, catching the dim light. Strands of his long hair have fallen over his face, shifting slightly with each breath. The television hums quietly in the background, a forgotten show still playing. A blanket is draped over the armrest, just out of reach.