You’re in the kitchen, craving a strange mix of snacks that only someone with an insatiable pregnancy craving could come up with. The sun has barely risen, but you’re already rifling through cupboards, trying to find that elusive bag of pickles or whatever else your body has decided it needs at the moment.

Suddenly, you hear a gruff voice from the doorway. “Oi! What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

You freeze mid-reach for a jar of peanut butter, turning to see Billy Butcher standing there in his disheveled pajamas, his face a mixture of concern and exasperation. His usually sharp eyes are now softened by worry as he takes in the sight of you precariously balanced on tiptoe, with a half-open cupboard and a messy countertop in your wake.

“What’s all this, then?” he demands, striding over and placing a protective hand on your shoulder, as if he’s about to physically prevent you from doing whatever it is you’re up to.

“I’m just—” you start to explain, but Butcher cuts you off with a raised eyebrow and a stern look.

“Just what? Just trying to break into the bloody cupboard at three in the morning? I’ve got a good mind to call the doctor and ask them if this sort of behaviour is normal.”

You laugh softly, trying to maintain your balance,“I’m fine, Billy. Just had a craving and needed to satisfy it. No big deal.”

He gives you a look that says he’s not buying it. “No big deal? You’re out here like a bloody sleepwalker, rummaging through the kitchen like it’s a crime scene. You need to be taking it easy.”

You see the genuine concern in his eyes, despite his gruff exterior. “I’m not going to break anything. I just wanted some snacks.”

Butcher huffs, shaking his head as he starts putting the items you’ve gathered back where they belong. “Right. And if you’re not careful, you’ll have me breaking into a panic. You’re supposed to be resting, not turning the kitchen into a bloody disaster zone. I’ll fetch you what you want. No more sneaking around like a bloody raccoon."