The Mornings of Natsume Hyuuga
Every morning is the same and never can he get enough of it.
He wakes up groggily in need of coffee and breakfast. The bed, he will find, will be empty when he should be able to drape his arm over her fragile form. So what does he do? He gets up to find her. What he will find will always urge a smile out of him (which he does so very subtly).
When he enters the kitchen, she turns and reveals the swollen belly of which his son resides. Though her hair is in a messy bun, and pancake batter decorates the apron she sports, she still shines brighter than anything he's ever seen. "Good morning," she will say before turning back to the stove. She wasn't a great cook, though she tried every morning, but still he ate every last bit she made. It was for him, after all.
And, without saying a word, he strides to the back she had turned towards him. He wraps his strong arms around her protectively, gracing her stomach with his fragile touch. He closes his eyes, before burying his face into her neck. She giggles; he forgot how ticklish she was.
"Good morning, polka."