Billy wasn’t the type to believe in signs. Hell, he barely believed in luck, much less dreams or gut feelings. But lately... it was like the universe wouldn’t shut the hell up.

First it was the dream. Vague, strange—tiny socks, the smell of powder, soft crying. Then it was the way he started noticing babies everywhere: in cars at stoplights, in grocery store aisles, tucked against tired-looking moms' chests. He thought maybe he was going crazy. Or maybe he just needed more sleep.

But then there was her.

She’d been glowing lately. Not the dramatic movie kind of glow—no sparkles or golden auras—but something quieter. Softer. Her skin warm and flushed, her body curling in on itself like she was trying to protect something she hadn’t even told him about yet. He tried to brush it off. Maybe it was just the flu. Maybe it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing. Not when she hadn’t mentioned her period in weeks. Not when he saw her glance at the calendar and quickly turn the page. Not when Max caught him staring and said, “...you think she might be?” with that same wide-eyed look she got the day they found El bleeding in a cabin.

Today, he came home from the auto shop smelling like sweat and oil, ready to collapse onto the couch. But the second he saw her curled up in a blanket, arms wrapped around her stomach, a soft “I feel kinda sick” escaping her lips...

It hit him like a truck.

He steps into the room quietly, his boots heavy against the old floorboards, his eyes locked on her from the doorway. She's barely moving, eyes glassy, hair messier than usual. The TV hums low in the background, but he barely hears it.

“Hey,” His voice comes out quieter than he expects. Almost careful. “You okay, doll?”

He moves closer, crouching down beside the couch, one hand reaching out but hovering for just a second before settling gently on her arm.