⟢ ── Don’t do that again
husband!Dieter x pregnant wife!reader
No CW needed, just a protective and annoying Dieter <3
idea from someone anonymous
wc : 8607
The sun was already beating against the windows when you opened your eyes.
It wasn’t the pale, timid light of winter, nor the heavy kind that falls too early in autumn. It was a real summer morning, blunt and bright, spilling across the sheets, the floorboards, the chair where your dress from the day before still slept.
The curtains let in stripes of gold. The room smelled of soap, warm dust, and cold tobacco. The imprint of Dieter’s head on the pillow beside you was already cold.
He’d left for work a while ago. You’d half-heard his footsteps, the clink of his belt, the sharp sound of the front door closing. You’d drifted back to sleep halfway.
Now there was only the silence of the apartment, the stubborn ticking of the clock, and that strange living weight in your belly.
You laid your hand on your skin out of reflex.
Twenty-one weeks.
Your belly was no longer just a slight roundness. It was a presence. A shape that stretched the fabric of your nightgown, that changed the way you got out of bed, how you sat down, how you breathed.
You hauled yourself onto your side, your feet searching for your slippers. Your spine protested a little, like that of an old woman. You slid to the edge of the bed, your palms flat on the mattress.
It was fine.
No dizziness this morning. No nausea. Just that familiar heaviness and those shy little movements, like small brushes from the inside.
You got to your feet. The floorboards creaked. Outside, Berlin was already breathing: you could hear the tram wheels screeching in the distance, a newspaper boy shouting the day’s headline, a radio crackling in the next apartment.
In the slanting light, your blue-and-white checkered dress was waiting for you, neatly folded over the back of the chair.
You looked at it for a moment, as if it were tempting you.
It was your pretty dress.
The one that used to hug your waist and now simply followed the new curve of your belly without squeezing it. The cotton was light and comfortable, the pattern modest but cheerful. The straps had been taken up a few centimeters a few weeks ago, with thread slightly darker than the fabric.
Your handiwork. Your small adjustment to this new body.
And next to it, on the floor, lined up like shiny soldiers: your white patent heels, three-centimeter heels, standing straight.
You’d been eyeing them with longing for days, without daring to touch them.
You heard Dieter’s voice in your head, hoarse and exasperated:
— You’re not wearing those. You’re going to break your neck on the stairs, he’d said.
He’d even pointed his finger that day, like a judge.
But you weren’t retaining water. Your ankles, for the moment, were the same. Your legs…
You lowered your gaze to them beneath the hem of your nightgown. Soft. Smooth. Perfectly shaved.
The image came back sharp, from two days earlier:
Sitting on a chair in the bathroom, a towel spread out under your feet. Dieter in front of you, crouched down, the razor in his hand like someone had handed him a torture device. His brow furrowed, his jaw clenched.
— This is ridiculous, he muttered. — I can’t see my legs properly anymore, Dieter. I’m going to cut myself, you said. — It’s not vital, as far as I know, to have legs like a shop window mannequin, he said. — It is to me, you answered.
You’d held your ground, your voice firm, your eyes locked on his.
And he’d given in—grudgingly, cursing under his breath, concentrating, his fingers surprisingly gentle on your skin.
You’d felt the razor glide, the foam cooling. He didn’t say it, but you saw it clearly: the almost excessive focus, the fear of hurting you.
Now your legs were neat, ready to see the light of day.
And the thought crossed your mind, sharp and sudden: No one sees them. No one sees me.
You took a deep breath.
The neighborhood market wasn’t far. Ten minutes on foot.
A summer morning, fresh fruit, a few vegetables, the outside air on your skin…
And Dieter at work, busy with his colleagues. Far away.
Your decision formed in silence, solid, complete.
You pulled the dress on. The fabric slid over your shoulders, settled on your hips. You buttoned it up, slowly, stopping twice when the baby kicked or when the fabric pulled a little tighter than before. In the spotted mirror above the dresser, you examined yourself.
You had changed.
Your face was a little rounder, your eyes a bit more shadowed. But there was also something more alive there, a kind of light, a tension.
You slowly ran your hand over the curve of your belly, as if you were smoothing a tablecloth.
Then, almost reverently, you took the white heels.
The patent leather caught the sunlight, a clean, almost insolent shine.
You slid one foot in, then the other.
Your toes welcomed the familiar feeling of leather squeezing a little, the heel lifting you up.
You stood very slowly, to be safe. The first second, your center of gravity protested. Your muscles tensed to adjust. You took one step.
A second.
It was fine.
No fall, no dizziness.
A tiny smile slipped out of you, small but real.
You were finding something of your old self again.
Not the watched wife, not the fragile future mother tucked in like old porcelain, but the woman who loved the sharp click of her heels on the floor.
You grabbed your canvas shopping bag, mechanically checked the money in your purse, then opened the kitchen window. The warm air rose, full of coal smoke, bread, and dust. Down in the courtyard, children’s voices echoed up.
Your heart was beating a little faster than usual.
It wasn’t just the pregnancy.
It was what you were about to do.
Dieter had been clear lately:
— Not alone. Never. You wait for me. Or you take someone with you. I don’t want you wandering around outside without me, he’d said.
He said it with that sudden anger that hid something else. You knew that. In his eyes, you could see the fear—fear of the crowd, of the city, of the cars, of the unpredictable, fear for you, fragile, lost in the middle of it all.
But sometimes, inside you, another fear answered back: the fear of becoming a piece of furniture that no one moved without asking permission.
You shut the window. You took your keys.
The apartment door closed softly behind you.
The sound of your heels rang in the stairwell, regular, sharp.
For the first time in weeks, you went down without arms around you, without a big hand at your back, without a voice ordering you to hold the railing.
The street welcomed you suddenly, bright, noisy, alive.
The cobblestones threw back the heat of the sun. Tramways slid by in the distance with a metallic screech. A bicycle passed, followed by a dog barking. A woman shook a rug out on a second-floor balcony, dust falling like a golden cloud.
You walked toward the neighborhood market, bag on your arm, heels tapping against the sidewalk.
Each step was a mix of freedom and faint guilt. Like stealing time, stealing air, stealing a morning that didn’t entirely belong to you.
Your belly pulled a little. Not painfully, just there. You braced your hand under it, automatically, to support it.
Eyes slid over you: men in suits hurrying past gave you a couple of quick glances; women looked you up and down, their gaze stopping on your heels, your belly, your empty bag.
Two boys sitting on some steps followed you with their eyes until you turned the corner. You heard one whisper:
— She’s pregnant, look at her shoes, the boy said.
The other snickered. You quickened your step a little, your cheeks hotter, not knowing if it was from the heat or from shame.
The market appeared at the end of the street like a mess of colors and noise.
Fruit stands, pyramids of tomatoes, cabbages, carrots, cloths stretched above to offer shade, voices calling out to one another, laughter, haggling.
The smell of fresh vegetables tangled with that of meat, fish, sweat, tobacco, frying oil.
You slowed, your eyes taking in the scene, almost in awe of this ordinary chaos you’d missed.
You recognized the faces, the silhouettes: the butcher in his stained apron, the flower woman who always wore the same yellow scarf, the two young men who helped load the crates.
And farther away, under a slightly torn awning, you saw her: Frau Mertens.
Frau Mertens had been selling vegetables longer than you’d been alive, if you believed her. Broad, solid, with red cheeks and hair pulled into a tight bun, she had a way of talking that left no room for shyness. She knew the people in the neighborhood, their stories, their troubles, their husbands.
She knew Dieter.
She’d seen you at his side more times than you could count, examining you like a bird that had fallen into her garden by mistake.
You stepped closer to her stall, your heart beating a little faster at the thought that she, of all people, might report back. But the smell of freshly pulled carrots, onions, apples, made you forget that worry for a second.
— Good morning, Frau Mertens, you said with a smile.
She raised her head, squinting to match your silhouette to her memories.
Then a wide grin split her face.
— Ah! Just look at that, she said. Her voice rolled out like happy thunder. — Out of your cage, are you? Come here, let me see you, she said.
You stopped in front of the stall.
Her gaze practically grabbed you by the shoulders, shamelessly looking you over: the checkered dress, the belly, the heels, your slightly flushed cheeks.
— You’re even rounder than last time, she said.
She set a fist on her hip.
— It’s growing well, huh? she asked.
You laid your hand on your belly, now an automatic, slightly protective reflex.
— He… he’s growing, yes, you said.
Then, more quietly:
— Twenty-one weeks.
Her eyes lit up.
— Ah! Halfway. You survived the first months, that’s already an achievement. I told you, didn’t I? The first three are hell. After that, you can breathe a little, she said.
You gave a small laugh, because it was true.
The nausea, the exhaustion, the nights spent staring at the ceiling wondering if it was normal to spot a little blood, if that pulling sensation meant something serious. Dieter pacing like a caged animal, growling, threatening to drag the doctor out of bed in the middle of the night.
— And how’s papa bear doing? she asked, grabbing a bunch of radishes and shaking it a little. — Still walking around with that face like he’s about to punch the sun itself? she said.
You felt your lips pinch, halfway between amusement and discomfort.
— He… works a lot, you said, careful. — And he… worries, you added.
Frau Mertens burst out laughing, her apron practically vibrating.
— Worries? You mean he growls louder than before, she said.
She set the radishes on the scale and shot you a sideways look.
— I see him, you know. When you two walk by. He watches you like you’re a porcelain sack in a crowded tram, she said.
You lowered your eyes to the carrots, neatly tied in bunches.
— He doesn’t want me going out alone, you admitted, almost under your breath. — He’s afraid I’ll fall. That… everything will happen at once, you said.
She raised an eyebrow, her face losing some of its amusement for something softer, more serious.
— Men get scared when they love someone, she said simply, wiping her hands on her apron. — And since they don’t know what to do with that fear, they become unbearable, she said.
You felt your throat tighten a little.
The hormones were doing their stupid dance again, ready to turn the slightest words into a catastrophe. You took a slow breath to steady yourself.
— That doesn’t mean he’s right to lock you up, mind you, she added, just as plainly. — The city’s not made of wolves. Just a few idiots, she said.
You smiled, more genuinely this time.
— Do you have tomatoes today? you asked.
Something concrete. A safer subject.
— Tomatoes? Of course I have tomatoes. Otherwise this wouldn’t be a market, it’d be a cemetery, girl. Look at this beauty, she said.
She handed you one, heavy, red, still warm from the morning sun.
You took the tomato, weighed it in your hand, brought it to your nose.
The smell hit you—simple, green, rich. Something that said: summer still exists, even in this kind of world.
You picked out a few vegetables: carrots, tomatoes, potatoes, a small cabbage, some slightly bruised apples that still smelled good. She talked the whole time she was filling your bag.
— You sleeping well? she asked. — More or less, you said. — Does he at least leave you the bed? she asked. — He snores louder than the tram, you answered.
Frau Mertens burst out laughing, slapping her hand flat on a crate.
You talked about everything and nothing, but you felt something inside you loosen a little. Here, in the middle of the shouts, the colors, the noise, you weren’t just “Dieter’s wife” or “the future mother”: you were you, with your shopping bag, your dress, your heels, your way of laughing a little too loudly sometimes.
— You’ll see, she said, tying a cloth bag. — Once the baby’s here, he’ll be even worse. He’ll circle the crib like a guard dog. You’ll practically have to pry the child out of his arms to feed it, she said.
The picture made you laugh. Dieter, stiff, a tiny baby squashed against his chest, looking like he was bargaining with fate itself.
And right then—right there, between the vegetables—a wave of emotion crashed over you, brutal.
Seeing him like that in your head made your eyes fill.
You blinked quickly, furious at those damned hormones.
Not now.
Not in front of the carrots.
Frau Mertens was about to add something, her mouth already open, when her gaze shifted over your shoulder.
It fixed on something farther away.
Her expression changed. Her smile twisted into a mischievous smirk.
She sniffed, then said in a slightly louder voice:
— Speaking of the wolf, she said.
Every alarm in your body went off at once.
Your fingers clenched around the handles of your bag. Your blood seemed to go cold all of a sudden, like someone had opened a window inside your veins.
You hadn’t even turned your head yet; you could already feel him.
Not just him, but what came with him: the shift in the air, a new tension, like someone had just dimmed the light.
You turned.
First you saw the group.
Four men in suits, light shirts, dark jackets, holding their hats in their hands because of the heat. They pushed through the crowd like a solid block, a little more arrogant, a little stiffer than the others. They were laughing about something—a colleague’s laugh, not really joyful, more loud than sincere.
Then, in the middle, slightly behind, you saw him.
Dieter.
His silhouette was as familiar to you as your own reflection. Broad shoulders under the jacket, back slightly hunched as if he were always carrying some invisible weight. The white shirt unbuttoned one notch because of the heat, his tie loosened. His hair pushed back, finger marks still visible.
A cigarette pinched between two fingers, smoke lifting in a thin column in front of his face.
He was talking to one of the men, or pretending to listen. His mouth was a tight line that wanted to pass for a polite smile. His eyes, though, were somewhere else. Always somewhere else.
And then they landed on you.
It wasn’t just a look.
It was a collision.
His eyes skimmed over the market first, without noticing you.
Then over Frau Mertens’s stall.
Then onto you—your blue-and-white dress, your white heels, your round belly, your shopping bag.
His whole face froze.
The colleague’s laugh died beside him like a radio switching off.
You felt panic rise so hard, so fast that your heart skipped a beat.
For a second, you thought of running. Really running.
Pretend you hadn’t seen him, turn your back, slip into the crowd, disappear between two stalls, hide behind a pile of crates.
But your feet were nailed to the cobblestones.
Your heels, which a few minutes ago had given you the illusion of being someone else, suddenly became shackles. Your belly reminded you sharply that rushing was no longer an option anyway.
Dieter stopped.
His colleagues took two more steps before realizing he wasn’t following. One of them called out:
— Dieter? What’s wrong? the man asked.
No answer.
His eyes didn’t leave you.
You knew him well enough to read, behind the stone of his features, everything that was exploding inside: surprise, anger, immediate, gut-deep fear at seeing you there, standing alone in the crowd, in heels, your belly in plain view.
His gaze flicked to your white shoes for half a second, then came back up to your face.
Your fingers tightened around the bag handles until your knuckles went white.
You had one absurd thought: I’m dead. Right here, in front of the carrots. This is where I die.
Beside you, Frau Mertens sniffed again, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
— Well, girl, she murmured, not taking her eyes off him, — I think the sun’s about to go behind a cloud, she said.
Dieter crushed his cigarette without looking, without even checking where the butt fell.
He said something to his colleagues—you didn’t catch the words, only the tone, low and sharp. The three men stepped back slightly, like somebody had suddenly turned a spotlight on a stage they didn’t want to be on.
And then he started toward you.
One step.
Two.
Each step was an unspoken sentence, heavy, a silent accusation.
You felt your heart climb into your throat, your belly tightening slightly in a protective reflex. The morning heat turned into a vise around you.
One of the first tears of the day was already gathering, just because you knew this was going to end badly, because your hormones were going to make sure you had zero chance of staying dry-eyed.
His eyes didn’t leave you.
In them was that dangerous mix you knew too well: anger and worry, badly balanced, ready to overflow either way.
The market kept living around you—voices, laughter, prices shouted out—but for you, everything narrowed down to that invisible corridor between his gaze and yours.
You swallowed, your fingers clenched around your bag, your dress pulled a little too tight over your belly in the sun, your heels planted straight into the stones.
He covered the distance like a storm.
His colleagues called something behind him, but their voices dissolved into the market noise. He didn’t see anything but you. His shoulders tensed, his features hardening to the point of looking carved from stone. That “killer look” people sometimes muttered about—right now he had it full on, without filter, without mask.
He began to shove people aside.
Not with punches, but with that brutal determination that said: I will not stop. A man protested, and Dieter pushed him away with a muttered:
— Watch it, for God’s sake, he growled.
A woman dropped a basket of apples that rolled everywhere, cursing at his back. Dieter didn’t apologize. He cut between two stalls, knocked into a crate, a vendor shouted after him. The crowd opened up on instinct: people always stepped aside for someone who looked ready to commit murder.
You didn’t move.
Your heels now felt ridiculously high. Your belly felt like a target.
You could feel your pulse thudding in your throat, in your temples, all the way down into your fingers gripping the bag.
When he reached you, the entire world seemed to shrink by one size.
He stopped right in front of you. Close enough that you smelled that familiar mix of tobacco and body heat coming off him, with a hint of soap underneath.
His gaze raked you from head to toe: the dress, the belly, the white shoes, the bag, your face.
He didn’t say anything for three whole seconds. Three seconds where you felt like your heart was going to stop and you’d give birth right there purely out of fear.
Then his jaw tightened.
His voice fell, low and hoarse, held back by sheer effort. He wasn’t shouting. He couldn’t shout. He knew that if his voice rose even a little, you’d break.
— Are you out of your mind? he said.
Six words. Sharp as blades.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
You could feel an excuse clawing to exist: the sun, the air, the fresh vegetables…
But under that stare, everything suddenly felt stupid.
He leaned in a little, close enough that no one else could hear clearly, but close enough that every syllable hit you right in the gut.
— Say it. Say you haven’t completely lost your mind, he said.
His gaze dipped to your heels, then climbed back up, fastening itself to your belly like a point that offended him.
— Twenty-one weeks pregnant, and you’re walking around alone, in heels, in the middle of a crowd. Are you reckless, or are you trying to drive me insane? he said.
His voice wasn’t loud, no.
But it was sharp and precise, like a knife pressed just hard enough to scare, not yet to cut.
Around you, people had slowed down. Ears lingered, eyes too.
You felt that particular burn of public scenes: the wish to disappear, to turn into a cloud, a leaf, a stain on the ground.
You tried to force words out.
— I was just… going to get a few… you began.
Your words collapsed. Shame rose, heavy and thick. The hormones pounced on it like hyenas. Your eyes filled too fast.
Something flashed in his gaze when he saw that. Not triumph—never—but a stronger panic, immediately translated into irritation.
— Don’t start, he said.
He clenched his teeth.
— Don’t cry here, he said.
His hand twitched, like he was fighting not to reach out and touch you.
It was already too late. The first tear slipped free, heavy, cutting down your cheek like a cold burn.
Behind her stall, Frau Mertens watched in silence, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. She didn’t step in. Not yet. She was judging.
You sniffed, desperate to hold back the next tears, but they overflowed anyway. You felt ridiculous, caught red-handed like a child, when you were, damn it, a grown woman, and your body was building a human being at that very moment.
You swallowed.
— I needed some air, you said in a broken breath. — I’m not… I’m not retaining water, I… I can stand just fine, Dieter, I… you stammered.
Your words tangled and tripped over each other. You drowned in them.
His face was a battlefield. You could see everything crashing around in there:
the fear—very clear—of imagining you falling, twisting your ankle, slamming your belly against those filthy cobblestones;
the anger—just as clear—at the fact that you’d taken that risk without him;
and over it all, that sick need to keep control of everything, including your breathing.
He handled it badly. As always.
— Air, he said.
His voice rose half a tone, just enough for you to feel the danger.
— You needed air? You think there isn’t any at home? You think I lock you in a trunk or something? he said.
You felt the eyes around you sharpen.
Vendors made a big show of rearranging crates, closer than necessary.
An old woman nodded along, already ready to retell the scene to the whole building tonight.
Your heart was beating too fast. Your belly tightened a little—not painfully, but noticeable. You pressed your hand there automatically. Dieter saw it at once, and it hit him like a punch to the chest.
His eyes clung to that gesture.
His face hardened even more.
He stepped closer, shrinking the space between you to nothing.
— You think I’m making dangers up? he said.
His voice was deeper now, lower, almost a growl.
— You think the city’s going to step aside just because you’re wearing a pretty checkered dress? You think cars stop out of respect for pregnant women? You think… he began.
He broke off.
His eyes lifted and met Frau Mertens’s. She was staring him down, eyebrows raised.
The silence around the stall thickened. You could almost hear the unsaid words hanging in the air.
Frau Mertens finally coughed, deliberately, to cut him off.
— Calmly, Dieter, she said, her voice firm without being intimidated. — The tomatoes haven’t done anything to you, she said.
You might almost have laughed if you hadn’t been on the edge of falling apart.
A second tear slid down, then a third. You raised your hand to wipe them away, but your fingers shook.
Dieter closed his eyes for one second. Just one.
When he opened them again, they were gleaming with contained rage, not really aimed at you, not really at the world, but at that damned sense of helplessness stuck to his skin.
He cursed between his teeth in German. Short, dark.
Then, suddenly, he half-turned toward Frau Mertens.
— I’m sorry, Frau Mertens, he said, the words clipped but sincere. — She shouldn’t have come out alone, he said.
The sentences were lopsided, badly put together, but you could still hear the worry behind them.
Frau Mertens planted her hands on her hips.
— She’s not made of sugar, Dieter, she replied calmly. — She’s already got enough weight to carry as it is. No need to pile yours on top of it, she said.
He flinched, barely, like the words had hit an old bruise he avoided touching.
He jerked his chin toward your bag.
— You gave her… all that? he asked. — Yes. And what of it? she said. She paid. That’s not a crime, she added.
You opened your mouth.
— Not yet, you muttered.
You hadn’t had time to pull your money out.
Dieter shot you a quick, cutting look.
— She’ll pay later, he told Frau Mertens. — Or I will. I’ll come back. Right now we’re leaving, he said.
His tone left no room for argument.
It wasn’t a question.
Frau Mertens glanced from you to him and sighed.
— Take the girl home, then, bear, she grumbled. — And try using something other than your claws. You’ll have her delivering sideways if you carry on like this, she said.
Dieter didn’t answer. He just dipped his head in a curt nod, a stiff thank-you, maybe a half-admission that he’d gone too far—though he couldn’t bring himself to say it outright.
Then he turned to you.
His fist finally unclenched. He practically ripped your bag out of your hand, grabbing the handles in a nervous motion.
His other hand closed around your arm, just above the elbow.
His grip was firm, possessive, almost rough, but you could feel the control there too: he was holding you like something too expensive to drop.
— We’re going home, he breathed close to your face.
You didn’t have time to answer.
He was already pulling you along.
Your heels clacked on the cobblestones, unsteady at the pace he set. You almost had to trot to keep up, your free hand pressed to your belly to buffer the jolts.
— Dieter, you’re going too fast, you protested, your voice strained, tears still hovering. — Slow down, please… you said.
— If I slow down, he said through his teeth, with zero softness, I’m either going to start shouting, or stop dead in the middle of the street. And in both cases, it’s bad for us. So you walk, he said.
The words hit you right in the chest.
A sob surged up, unstoppable this time. Your throat tightened, your vision blurred. You kept moving anyway; you didn’t have a choice, dragged by his arm, by the tie binding you to him from long before this baby.
Behind you, the market slowly got louder again, like the scene had been swallowed and digested, ready to turn into rumor.
— Poor man, he’s out of his mind with worry, someone muttered. — She’s crazy too, going out like that… whispered another. — In heels, can you believe it… a third voice said.
The phrases stuck to your skin like flies.
Dieter didn’t look back.
You felt his fingers tightening even more around your arm, as if he were afraid you might evaporate right there, between two cobblestones.
His breath was uneven—not from exertion; he could have run for blocks—but because anger and fear were mixing into something burning in his chest.
You sniffed, wiping your cheek with your forearm in a clumsy swipe.
— You embarrassed me, you blurted at last, your voice cracked, without thinking. — In front of everyone… You… you talk to me like I’m a child… you said.
He turned his head a little toward you, still walking, his gaze dark.
— You think I was thinking about your pride? he asked.
His eyes shone, almost wet, but he refused to blink too long.
— You think I saw anyone but you in that damn market? You think I… he began.
He cut himself off, chewing on his words, swallowing them crooked.
— I saw you. Alone, he said at last, his voice rougher still. — And I felt my heart drop into my shoes. That’s all, he said.
You went quiet.
The sentence hung between you, awkward, crooked, but true. Completely true.
The tears came back harder, obviously.
You hated it. You hated being this out-of-control faucet.
You hated how every word, every gesture from him turned into a catastrophe inside you.
— You could’ve said it differently, you murmured between sniffles. — You could’ve… you could’ve just said you were scared. Not that I was reckless. Not that… you started.
You finally broke free of the market’s stream. The noise grew more distant. The street was less crowded now, though still crossed by passersby, bikes, cars.
Dieter slowed a little, your wrist still in his hand.
He breathed more deeply, like someone finally getting their head above water.
His gaze landed on your face. You had to look like a mess: red eyes, shiny nose, mascara probably dying somewhere under your lower lashes.
He clenched his jaw, then exhaled.
— I don’t know how to say “I was scared” calmly, he admitted, his tone harsh, as if each word cost him. — It’s just… it comes out like this. Crooked, he said.
It wasn’t an excuse. Not really.
But it was an attempt. A sort of confession.
He turned his head forward again, his fingers loosening slightly around your arm without letting go altogether.
— We’re going home, he repeated, quieter. — After that, you can tell me what you absolutely had to go buy at the market that was worth making me age ten years, he said.
You sniffled, tears still coming even so.
You felt your belly, heavy and alive, protesting a little.
You walked beside him, dragged, held, loved the wrong way as always:
with too much fear, too much anger, too much clumsy intensity.
And somewhere, buried deep inside, a tiny part of you still noted that he had crossed that entire crowd for you without hesitating, that he’d walked through it like a fire.
The staircase up to the apartment passed in a blur.
You didn’t really remember each step, just the repetitive sound of your heels, Dieter’s hand tight around your arm, your breath a little too short.
The stairwell smell—dust, soup, stale smoke—climbed along with you.
On every floor, you thought: this is too much, he’s going to hate me, I hate him too, why did I go out, why am I still crying, why is everything such a mess.
On every floor, he was thinking the opposite: she could’ve fallen, someone could’ve knocked into her, some idiot could’ve…
Two films overlaid, without ever syncing up.
At the door, he finally let go of your arm to dig for his keys.
You felt the mark of his fingers, warm, almost painful, on your skin.
The key turned in the lock with a sharp click.
The door opened onto the dark, quiet apartment, exactly as you’d left it that morning, only now filled with everything you’d brought back from the market: anger, fear, tears, tomatoes.
Dieter went in first, the bag in his hand.
He dropped it on the kitchen table a bit too hard, the vegetables knocking against each other with a dull thud.
— Take your shoes off, he said without looking at you.
You stopped in the doorway, your hand braced on the frame.
You felt emptied out and raw at the same time, like your skin had lost a layer in the span of a morning.
— I was going to, you muttered, hurt despite yourself.
Your voice was hoarse. That trembling in your throat was still waiting to trip every sentence.
He finally turned toward you.
Seeing your heels on the floor, your rounded belly under the dress, your eyes still shining with leftover tears—that seemed to finish him off.
— Not “I was going to”, he growled, stepping toward you. — Now, he said.
His hand landed on your shoulder to steer you toward the bedroom. Not exactly gently, but with a firmness that didn’t leave room for refusal.
You walked down the hallway, your heels still clacking, softer now on the runner.
The bedroom was still dim, curtains half-drawn. A strip of light cut across the edge of the bed, the sheet slightly rumpled, the mark of your absence still there.
— Sit, he ordered.
You sat on the edge of the bed, obedient more from exhaustion than submission.
Your hand went to your belly, reassuring habit.
Dieter dropped to his knees in front of you.
For a second, you thought he was going to yell at you from there, right up in your face.
But his fingers slid down to your ankles.
He took your right foot and set it on his thigh, fingers finding the buckle of your heel.
His movements were quick, nervous, too abrupt to be called gentle, but you could feel in the way he held you that he was being careful not to twist anything.
The buckle gave with a small click.
He pulled the shoe off and set it aside, then took the other.
— You’re not wearing these things again as long as… he began.
He broke off, searching for a limit.
— As long as you’re like this, he said.
You frowned.
— “Like this”? you asked.
He looked up at you, irritated.
— With a five-kilo tenant stomping around in your belly, he said. — As long as he’s in there, no heels. Period, he said.
His tone was dry, authoritative.
You felt stung again. Every sentence from him today felt like a slap.
— He’s not five kilos, you shot back, your voice shaking. — And I needed to feel… normal, you said.
The word hung between you.
Normal.
Dieter straightened a little, your shoes now in his hand. He stared at them for a second—those bright, white, accusatory things—then set them down roughly by the wall, as if he wanted them as far from you as possible.
— Normal, he repeated, his tone strange. — What do you think you are right now, huh? Sick? Broken? he asked.
He stood up fully, ran a hand through his hair, and paced a few steps around the room.
His anger now was less aimed at you and more diffuse, like smoke clinging to the walls.
You felt naked, even in the dress. Without your heels, without that morning’s little rush, you felt like you’d been dropped right back into your place: small, fragile, dependent.
— I just wanted to go out, you murmured. — To breathe a little. To not have to ask your permission to… buy apples, you said.
A humorless laugh barked out of him.
— Permission, he said.
He turned toward you, his eyes blazing.
— That’s what you call “not ending up sprawled on the pavement with blood everywhere”? Permission? he said.
You opened your mouth to reply, but he raised his hand to cut you off.
— Forget it, he growled. — You’re tired. I’m tired. And if we keep going, you’re going to start crying again and I… he began.
He stopped short, like he’d almost said too much.
You stared at him, eyes shining.
You felt furious and sad and exhausted and fragile all at once, loved crookedly and trapped inside that love.
He jerked his chin at your dress.
— Take that off. Put something comfortable on. You’re shaking, he said.
You glanced down at your hands.
They were trembling, yeah. You weren’t even sure if it was from the tiredness, the emotions, the heat, or all of the above.
— Help me, you breathed.
He froze.
— What, you don’t have arms anymore? he said.
— I’m tired, you replied, this time with a cold anger. — And I can’t undo the buttons in the back by myself, you know that very well. You help me every time since… you started.
You trailed off, a little ashamed to have to point it out.
But it was true: your belly took up space, your arms strained, you turned awkwardly. The buttons down your back had become an Olympic event.
Dieter exhaled through his nose, exasperated.
But he stepped closer. Always.
Always, when it came to practical things, he showed up. That was his way of sticking around.
He moved behind you.
You felt the mattress dip slightly under his weight, the warmth of him at your back.
His fingers found the first button at the nape of your neck.
They were a little cold, precise.
One by one, he undid them.
The light sound of buttons sliding free, the soft rustle of fabric. The dress opened down your back, a cooler draft slipping in.
You closed your eyes.
That simple act—him undressing you—held something intimate, domestic, worn-in. Not sensual, not today. Too much fatigue, too many tears.
Just intimate. The two of you, inside this strange everyday life that sometimes felt like a constant wrestling match.
— Raise your arms, he murmured.
You obeyed, slowly.
He slid the fabric off your shoulders, down your arms, careful not to catch or twist anything. You felt the dress slide in a soft whisper down to your waist, then over your hips to pool at your feet.
For a moment, you sat there in your underwear on the edge of the bed, vulnerable in the half-dark.
He didn’t linger.
You heard the wardrobe door creak open. The sound of wood, hangers clacking. He took your nightgown—the soft cotton one, a little loose, the one you wore when you didn’t have the energy to pretend to be pretty.
He came back toward you, nightgown in hand.
— Up, he said.
You got to your feet, more slowly than you had that morning. Your legs protested, your lower back too.
He slipped the nightgown over your head, helped you guide your arms through the sleeves, tugged the fabric down until it fell properly over your belly. His fingertips brushed your skin by accident at your shoulders, and a shiver ran up your spine.
When it was all in place, he stepped back, watching you for a second.
You looked like a tired bird bundled in a piece of white sky.
— Lie down, he ordered.
You didn’t even have the strength to argue.
You let yourself fall back gently, rolling onto your left side out of habit—the side where you could breathe easiest, where the baby seemed to kick less.
The mattress almost swallowed you.
Your muscles loosened, your shoulders too. You felt the weight of your belly settle differently, both hands automatically coming to cradle it.
Dieter pulled the sheet up over you, all the way under your chin, with a motion almost brusque. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed by your legs, leaning forward a little, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
He was quiet for a while.
You could hear only your own slightly wheezy breathing and, faintly, a tram passing somewhere outside.
Then he spoke.
— Don’t do that again, he said.
His voice wasn’t hard anymore. It was… grave. Tired.
You blinked up at the ceiling.
— Go out? you asked. — Go out alone, he said.
His fingers tightened around each other.
You could almost hear his knuckles creak.
— You think I’m being dramatic. You think I lock you up for fun, he went on, eyes fixed on the floor. — You think I enjoy playing prison guard, he said.
You hadn’t used those words.
But you’d thought them, some nights.
— You don’t know, he said, his voice rougher. — You don’t know what it’s like, imagining you lying somewhere outside, calling, and me not there. You don’t know what it’s like to… he started.
He cut himself off. His throat worked.
He drew a deep breath.
— I’ve seen women… he began.
The sentence broke.
You turned your head slightly toward him.
He was still staring at the floor as if something were carved into it.
— I’ve seen what it looks like when… when it goes wrong, he said finally, each word heavy. — When you fall. When you bleed. When you get to the doctor too late. When you bring them back without… he said.
His hand made a vague motion, like pushing an image away.
— I’m not telling you this to scare you, he added quickly, his brow furrowing. — I’m telling you because it’s stuck in my head, and every time you disappear from my sight, all of it comes back. So yes, I want you where I can reach you. It makes me unpleasant. It’s that or lose my mind completely, he said.
You stayed silent.
The tears returned, slower this time. No panic, just a heavy emotion climbing up.
You swallowed.
— You could say it like that, you whispered. — Not by calling me reckless in front of everyone, you said.
He finally lifted his eyes toward you.
His gaze caught your tears, your red nose, the sheet pulled up to your chin. You looked like a sick child. It finished him.
— I don’t know how, he admitted.
The words slipped out of him bare, without armor.
— I don’t know how to say it differently. When I open my mouth, it comes out wrong. That’s how I am, he said.
A little laugh escaped you, trapped between your sobs.
— Great, then we’re both crooked, you murmured, laying a hand on your belly.
A timid little kick answered.
You smiled, despite everything.
He followed your hand with his eyes, watching your belly rise, the sheet tracing the outline of that other presence.
He stayed there, bent forward, worrying aloud for a few more minutes.
There were still a few scoldings tucked in there, but softer now, worn down by exhaustion.
— Next time you tell me, he said. We go together, he said. — The sidewalks are full of idiots. They don’t see you. Cars don’t stop for you, he muttered. — And those damned shoes… If I see them on your feet again, I’m throwing them out the window, he said.
His sentences blurred together, somewhere between threats, complaints, and pure fear.
You felt your mind float, worn out by the day, by the crying.
At some point, while he was still muttering about a doctor who’s “never close enough”, you cut him off.
— Dieter, you said.
He stopped, surprised.
Your eyes met his, still wet but clearer.
— What? he asked.
You drew in a slow breath.
— Come here, you said.
He blinked, wary.
— I’m already here, he said.
— No. Come here, you insisted.
You patted the space beside you on the bed.
Your eyes shone with a softer, more vulnerable light.
— I need cuddles. And kisses, you said.
The silence that followed was almost comical.
Dieter took the request full in the face like a slap with a time delay.
— …what? he said.
— You heard me, you repeated, more firmly. — Cuddles. And kisses. I need them. Right now, you said.
He stared at you like you’d just asked him to go lasso the moon with his bare hands.
— Two minutes ago you were putting me on trial for worrying about you, he grumbled. — And now you want… cuddles. You realize how… he started.
— I’m twenty-one weeks pregnant, you cut in. — I walked, I cried, you practically ripped my arm off, I took off my pretty dress, I’m exhausted, my back is killing me, and my hormones are throwing a circus in there. So yes, Dieter, I want cuddles and kisses. You don’t have to think it’s logical. You just do it. That’s it, you said.
Your voice shook, but there was steel in it.
You had that look of something fragile and cracked that refused to shut up anyway.
He froze for a moment, mouth half open.
Part of him wanted to say no. On principle. For self-defense. Because giving tenderness, for him, was like walking barefoot on burning coals.
— No, he said finally.
You felt something snap inside you, clean.
Your eyes were already filling. You shut them for a second, but it didn’t matter: the tears came again.
— Of course, you whispered.
Your voice broke.
— Obviously. You can yell at me in front of the whole neighborhood, drag me back here, but a hug is too much to ask, you said.
The tears rolled in a quiet line.
You turned your face slightly toward the wall, like you were trying to shield yourself from his refusal, from him.
— I… I just need to feel that you don’t hate me, you murmured, half to yourself. — That this isn’t against me. That I’m not just a weight you’re carrying, you said.
That sentence hit him dead center.
He looked at you lying there, tiny in your nightgown, belly rounded, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Something in him cracked.
He’d felt like he’d been holding you at arm’s length for weeks—to protect you, to keep you from falling. And here he was hurting you another way.
— Stop, he said, but there was no strength left in his voice. — Stop crying. You’re going to hurt yourself at this rate, he said.
— I can’t, you choked out. — It’s you… You keep pressing exactly where it hurts, every time, you said.
He swore under his breath and dragged his hand down over his face like he was trying to wipe something off.
Then, finally, he gave in.
You felt the bed move.
The mattress sank beside you. He kicked his shoes off in a hurry, shrugged out of his jacket and threw it on the chair, yanked his tie loose in a rough jerk.
He slid in behind you, onto the bed, with an awkwardness that was almost touching.
You felt his warmth at your back, his breath nearer.
An arm hesitated above you.
Then it finally wrapped around your waist, crawling upward until his hand settled just below your breast, over your ribs. His chest fit against your shoulder blades. His legs folded behind yours, careful not to press on your belly.
He held you.
Not gently at first. More like he was afraid you’d slip away again.
— This, he muttered near your ear, — this is a cuddle. Don’t ask for an illustration, he said.
A tiny laugh escaped you through the tears.
Your body unwound, millimeter by millimeter, against his.
The heat of him melted some of the exhaustion, like someone had laid a warm blanket over a block of ice.
Your tears kept flowing, but slower now.
You shifted back into him, pressing closer, instinctively seeking that full contact.
— And the kisses? you managed between two sniffles.
He sighed like a martyr.
— You never quit, do you? he said.
His hand slid up, hesitant, to your collarbone.
He leaned in, his lips searching for your skin in the dimness.
He placed a kiss on your temple first.
Just contact. Nothing dramatic.
But you felt a strange wave roll through you, a mix of safety and a kind of old ache.
He stayed there awhile, his lips pressed to your skin, like he was trying to stick all the unsaid things onto you.
— That counts, you murmured.
He grumbled into your hair.
— You want the whole catalogue, that it? he asked.
He let his mouth slide lower, onto your damp cheek.
Another kiss, a longer one. He tasted the salt of your tears without commenting.
— Disgusting. You’re still crying, he muttered, but without any real bite.
You turned a little, as much as your belly allowed, so you could see him.
Your faces ended up just a few centimeters apart.
His gaze locked onto yours.
In it, you saw everything his words couldn’t tidy up: fear, guilt, exhaustion, rough-edged love.
You set your hand on his cheek, gently, like you were taming an animal.
— More, you said simply.
He sighed and shut his eyes for a second.
Then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to yours.
It wasn’t a wild kiss, not a movie kiss.
It was a tight, almost clumsy kiss, with more tension than sensuality. His hand held the back of your neck like he was afraid you might come apart.
You answered softly, your tears mixing into everything.
You didn’t need more than that. You needed exactly this: that contact, that proof that behind the harsh words there wasn’t contempt, only badly managed panic.
He pulled back after a few seconds, his breath slightly uneven.
— There, he muttered. — Cuddles. Kisses. Full package. You going to be able to stop now? he asked.
You smiled, worn out, your heart a little calmer.
— Maybe, you said, your voice lighter. — For… a few minutes, you added.
He rolled his eyes, but his arm tightened around you.
His hand slid down to your belly and settled there, heavy and warm. His thumb rubbed lightly over a spot where you sometimes felt a kick.
— You scared us, he murmured, very quietly, more to your belly than to you. — Try not to do that again. You either, in there, he said.
You felt a little movement, like an answer.
A breath that was almost a laugh slipped out of you.
— See? He’s already listening to you, you said, your eyes drifting shut. — He knows his father is unbearable, you added.
— His father knows he’s going to end up insane if you two start sneaking out together to buy carrots, Dieter replied, his chin resting against your hair.
You let silence slowly slide back in.
The outside world, the market, the stares, the heels, the scoldings—all of it faded, replaced by this strange little cocoon: you, your belly, him, his arm wrapped tight around both of you.
His fingers tapped your side in a slow rhythm, almost like a lullaby.
— Sleep a bit, he murmured, his voice finally softened by fatigue. — And when you wake up, I’ll start grumbling again. Just so you know everything’s normal, he said.
You smiled into the pillow, eyes already closed.
One last sob climbed up, but it dissolved quickly in the warmth.
You let yourself slide into sleep with one clear, solid feeling: his hand on your belly, his fingers hooked into your hip, his breath against your neck.
For all that he didn’t know how to talk properly, Dieter knew at least one thing: how to hold on to you as if the whole world were trying to tear you away from him.
