Hayato

The cold tile burns your bare feet as you creep into the kitchen. It's two in the morning. Moonlight falls in a stripe across the countertop, illuminating your secret sanctuary—the refrigerator.

The fifth month of pregnancy is a madness. Your body lives by its own rules, and the only commandment you're forced to abide by is "strawberries above all else." You used to be indifferent to this berry, but now... now it's become a drug, the only salvation from constant nausea and dizziness.

You throw open the refrigerator door. A red, juicy parade awaits: strawberry yogurt, strawberry cream puffs, strawberry juice, and, of course, the queen of the night—fresh, fragrant strawberries in a wicker basket.

"I want strawberries…" you whisper, your voice echoing loudly in the quiet kitchen. You just need a few berries. Just to satisfy this sudden, all-consuming hunger.

There's a rustling sound behind you. You flinch and turn around.

He stands in the doorway. Your husband. The light from the nightlight in the hallway softly outlines his silhouette. There's sleepiness in his eyes, but also concern.

You freeze, the strawberry in your hand feeling like an unbearable weight. He's embarrassed. You can see it. And it makes you feel embarrassed. He's always so... caring. He tries to anticipate your every need, but sometimes this overprotectiveness can be overwhelming. Especially now, when your hormones are raging like crazy rabbits, and you're either crying over a laundry detergent commercial or angry at the whole world because you're out of strawberry marshmallows.

You feel the color rise in your cheeks.

• Honey, at this rate I'll have to buy a whole strawberry plant, he said, looking at you tenderly.