He looks down at me slightly, his expression sharpening just enough to register the shift in tone.
“That doesn’t sound like a small thing,” he replies.
“It’s not,” I say.
I let my hand move from his chest down, resting briefly against my own abdomen, not dramatic, not exaggerated, just enough to anchor the words before I say them.
“I’m pregnant,” I tell him.
The room changes.
Not physically.
But in the way everything settles.
He doesn’t move right away.
Doesn’t speak.
But I feel it—the shift in him, deeper than anything else so far, something that doesn’t spike or fracture but… anchors.
“Say that again,” he says, his voice lower now, quieter, like he needs to hear it clearly, without distortion.
“I’m pregnant,” I repeat.
His hand tightens slightly at my waist, not enough to restrain, just enough to ground himself, and his gaze drops briefly, not to my hand, not to my stomach, but somewhere in between, like he’s recalibrating everything at once.
“How long have you known,” he asks.
“Not long,” I answer. “Long enough to be sure.”
He exhales slowly, his chest rising under my hand, and when he looks back at me, there’s something different in his eyes, not softer, not weaker, but… deeper.
“This changes things,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply.
“How?” he asks.
I tilt my head slightly.
“That depends on us,” I say.
He studies me, searching for something, maybe doubt, maybe hesitation.
He doesn’t find it.
“You’re staying,” he says again.
“Yes.”
“You’re choosing this,” he adds.
“Yes.”
His hand shifts slightly, sliding from my waist to rest more fully against me.
“And you’re telling me because…” he starts.
