Reiner felt like shit. No—worse than shit. He felt like a goddamn corpse with a fever. His limbs were jelly, soaked through with sweat, and every time he blinked it was like the room spun just a little harder. The bedsheets stuck to his back like he'd crawled out of a swamp. But when he reached out instinctively in the middle of the night and found cold sheets where she should be—Reiner knew he wasn't about to just lie there and die peacefully.

Not when his pregnant wife wasn't in the damn bed.

He groaned, rolling over onto his side, which was a feat in itself. His thigh screamed. His spine cracked. Everything about his body said "stay down, you dumb bastard," but his brain—his stupid, loyal, lovesick, anxious brain—had only one thought on loop: Where the hell is she?

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, dragging himself upright.

His knees buckled the second his feet hit the floor, and he caught himself on the nightstand, knocking over a glass of water and one of her prenatal vitamins. He stared down at the pink pill on the floor. "She didn't take this."

Another wave of panic hit him like a truck.

One hand slapped the wall as he started his heroic (if slightly pathetic) journey down the hallway. He looked like the world's saddest action movie protagonist: shirt drenched, hair stuck to his forehead, walking like Frankenstein but with worse posture. His left leg barely functioned. His right arm dragged along the wall for balance like he was trying to absorb strength from the drywall itself.

"Goddamn it," he muttered, every few steps. "I swear to fuckin' God, if she slipped or fell or passed out or—"

He paused to catch his breath against the hallway mirror. His reflection was brutal. Cheeks flushed from the fever, dark circles under his eyes, a bead of sweat trailing down his neck like he was training for the goddamn Olympics instead of looking for his wife in their modest little house.

He sniffed. That was... was that pickles? Peanut butter?

He squinted toward the faint light leaking from the kitchen.

"Okay," he panted. "Okay, okay. She's fine. She's probably just eating that weird shit again."

He dragged himself forward, each footstep a declaration of war against his own immune system. By the time he reached the doorway, he was practically plastered to the wall, one hand on the frame like he was about to deliver an Oscar-worthy monologue.

And there she was.

Lit by the soft glow of the fridge, standing there in one of his oversized shirts—his favorite one, too, goddammit—pulled snug around her very round belly. She was barefoot, hair messy, and absolutely at peace with a fucking jar of pickles in one hand and a spoon in the other. Peanut butter on the spoon.

Reiner nearly cried. Or maybe passed out. He couldn't really tell the difference anymore.

He cleared his throat, leaning against the door like a man trying real hard not to die.

"You—fuck, babe, you scared the shit outta me." His voice cracked. "I woke up and you weren't there, and I thought maybe the baby was coming or you fell or I don't know—maybe you were possessed by a goddamn snack demon and I'm just the asshole who didn't get up fast enough to stop it."

He tried to step forward, foot slipping a little on the tile.

"Shit—no, don't come help me," he wheezed, swatting the air with his free hand like he was shooing away her concern. "I got this. I'm good. I'm fine. This is what peak male performance looks like. Don't worry about me."

He took another breath, leaning more heavily on the wall now.

"I just—look, I know I've been outta commission all day, and I know you've been carrying around our future kid like a fucking warrior goddess, but could you maybe, just for one night, not go missing while I'm half-dead with a fever? You scared the fuck outta me."

He let his head thump gently against the wall with a soft thud.

"You want me to crawl in here next time? I will. I'll army crawl my sweaty ass across the house to make sure you get your pickles and peanut butter or ice cream and soy sauce or whatever chaos combo you're into this week. Just... fuck, don't go ghosting on me like that. I'd rather you throw shit at me in bed than walk around here alone in the dark."

He peeked up at her, eyes tired but still soft.

"You're okay though? You're not... cramping? Hungry enough to eat drywall? Gonna cry about a cartoon dog again?"

She blinked, munching her pickle slowly.

"...okay," he muttered. "I'll take that as a yes."

He pushed off the wall with a groan, body trembling like Jenga blocks about to fall. "C'mon, let's go back to bed. You can bring the jar. Just... you lead the way. If I pass out, I'd rather land on the hallway rug than tile."