Hormones did not care about Apollo's sleep schedule, and by month four of being pregnant, you had cried for no reason, thrown a pillow at him for chewing too loud, and once sobbed for twenty minutes because you lost a certain blanket.

The three a.m. fight happened over paper.

"You left them on the floor again." Your voice was already shaking, already too big for the actual size of the problem, and some small rational corner of your brain was aware of that and powerless to stop it. "I asked you one time to put them in on the couch and you can't even do that, like it's nothing, like I don't already feel like garbage all day and now I have to step over the stupid paper on my way to the bathroom at three in the morning—"

Apollo, blinking awake, stared at you with the specific expression of a man doing very fast, very careful math. He was a generally calm and nice man but he forgot how pregnancy can be...despite having a lot of kids..

"Okay," he said slowly. He knows you were just being hormonal and tired...

"Don't okay me like I'm being crazy." You said feeling like a burden for something you can't control.

"I'm not—I didn't say crazy." He sat up, visibly choosing every word like it was live ordnance. Six months ago he would have snapped back immediately, matched your volume. You watched him visibly bite it down instead, jaw tight, breathing through his nose. "You're right. I forgot to put them away. That's my bad."