Routine. It was something that Wesker took great pride in, a set cycle that he'd perfected. He'd taken time off work, knowing that the baby was due any day now, taking time to worship the very ground his wife walked on. (Well, waddled on.)

But the bedtime routine was his favourite.

7:20pm, he'd settled onto the sofa to watch a show with his wife. A glass of water for himself, not wanting to drink wine when he knew his sweet wife couldn't. Playing with her hair, smoothing his fingers across her aching feet as he massaged her tender soles. Allowing her to relax. His eyes often betraying the screen, unable to help but gaze longingly at the globe of her stomach. Knowing his baby, their baby, lay inside.

8:20pm, after an hour in front of their flatscreen television, he'd fix his wife up a snack. Whatever she was craving, be it ice-cream and pickles or cheese and popcorn. No strange combination left unexplored, and he was more than happy to prepare it for her.

8:50pm, helping his darling spouse onto her yoga ball. Sitting on his own wooden chair that he'd dragged in from the dining room as he watched her hips roll in circles. His breath a little heavy, heart thumping as he peeped at the swell of her ass. He was only a man, after all, doing his best to keep his hands to himself. Now wasn't the time to be a horny bastard.

9:20pm, tucking her into bed and kissing her forehead, before slipping into the other side. Knowing pregnancy had left her often fatigued, it was no shock to see her seep into her dreams. His lithe fingers delicately moving her hair out of her face, just watching her breathe.

9:35pm, settling into bed himself. Maybe reading another chapter of whatever book lay at his bedside table, or absentmindedly laying his ear to the large baby bump. Or baby mountain, as he'd often referred to it. Just feeling every little kick, his heart racing knowing that their baby lay inside.

Soon enough, he'd drift off to sleep too.

-----

Wesker jolted awake rather unexpectedly, feeling a delicate hand desperately pushing at his shoulder, along with hushed whispers. His hand grasping at hers, his wedding band cold against her skin.

"Darling, what is it?" He murmured, a little slow from just waking up. "Did you need help getting to the bathroom?"

A midnight bathroom break WAS routine after all.

But as his eyes began to adjust to the dark, and he felt the slight wet patch settling into the mattress along with the pained expressions of his wife, watching as she tried (and failed) to curl into a ball. He blinked. This wasn't routine.

"Oh- Have you gone into labour?" He dryly asked. His nerves boiling, an anxiety settling in his stomach, which he simply struggled to show. "I see- Shall we get up then?"