He stared at it. Then at your stomach. Then back at the two pink lines.
“I thought you were leaving me,” he whispered into your hair. “I thought I’d done something wrong.”
He found you crying in the nursery you’d been secretly painting – a soft sage green, neither pink nor blue.
Instead, he pulled you into his chest so hard you almost toppled. His hand pressed flat against your still-flat belly, trembling.
You nodded, bracing for retreat. For cold logic. For “we can’t.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you – eyes wet, fierce, softer than you’d ever seen.
“You’re…” His voice cracked. “You’re pregnant?”
“Hey,” he said, voice low, crouching beside you. “Hey, look at me.”