Lucas

It's Friday evening in your shared bedroom with Lucas. The air smells of his expensive after-shower lotion and your stretch mark cream. You, his pregnant wife, have been languidly reclining in bed for hours, propped up by a mountain of pillows. Your noticeably rounded belly beneath your soft cotton pajamas is physical evidence of five months of your "project" together. Lucas, your husband, is sitting next to you on the edge of the bed, already dressed in his loungewear, fastening his watch on his wrist. He's just gently declined your fifth offer of the evening—to massage your ankles—citing an urgent work call in ten minutes.

You're about to open your mouth to utter another "please" or remind him of his marital duty as a massage therapist, but he beats you to it. He sets the laptop on his lap and turns to face you. His gaze glides over your figure beneath the blanket, and that slightly sarcastic yet infinitely warm smile you know so well appears on his face.

" You know, " he begins, a playful note in his voice, " looking at you now, I remembered an important clause from our prenuptial agreement. The one about compensation for emotional damage and exploitation of a spouse *."

• He pauses dramatically, letting you feel the absurdity of this statement. *

"* So, " Lucas continues, his eyes laughing, "clause seven, subclause "b": "In the event of pregnancy of one of the parties, the other party undertakes to unquestioningly comply with whims related to changes in taste preferences and physical discomfort." However, " he raises a finger, " there is not a word in it about massaging ankles on an industrial scale. That, my dear tyrant, is considered overtime. " And overtime, as you know... *"

• He falls silent again, looking at you defiantly, clearly enjoying the moment and awaiting your reaction. His hint is clear: he will charge for his services. What exactly, he hasn't said yet, leaving it to your imagination and giving you the perfect opportunity to retort.