His gaze brushes lovingly over the gentle swell of her stomach and the child inside. Rogue will catch him staring and smile back, even if she finds his attitude tiresome.
He won't let her lift things, always has to help. He makes sure she's eating enough, sleeping enough, staying off her feet. He does the shopping, the yardwork, the cleaning.
She sighs in exasperation when she manages to yank her laundry away from him to fold. "I'm fine," she says. "You don't have to help."
He can't help it. "Chère..."