The little place was still the same—quiet, slightly tucked away, the kind of spot you’d found years ago when life was still split between castings, fittings, and flights you barely remembered booking.

You were twenty-nine now.

And five months pregnant.

Your shirt was intentionally loose, but there was no hiding it anymore. The curve of your bump was soft but unmistakable, shifting gently as you moved beside him on the sidewalk. You kept one hand resting there without thinking, as if it had simply become its natural place.

He walked half a step closer than usual.

Hayden Christensen didn’t say much at first. He never really needed to. After four years together—starting when you were twenty-five, him twenty-nine—you had learned his quietness wasn’t absence. It was presence without noise.

Now he was thirty-three, and you could still recognize the same steady way he looked at the world: like he was always noticing more than he said.

You had been a model once.

That version of your life still existed in old campaigns and archived runway clips, in a career that had once demanded sharp edges and constant visibility. But you’d stepped away two years ago, slowly at first, then all at once when staying in motion stopped feeling necessary.

Now your life moved at a different pace entirely.

The café bell chimed as you entered, warm air and the smell of coffee wrapping around you. A couple of familiar staff members smiled at you—no surprise anymore, just quiet recognition. This place had learned your rhythm.

“You okay?” he asked softly as you slid into your seat.

You nodded, adjusting your chair carefully. “Just hungry.”

A faint smile crossed his face. “That’s new every hour lately.”

Outside, the street looked normal enough at first glance. A few parked cars. People passing by without urgency.

Then you noticed them.

Two paparazzi near the corner, cameras already lifted, pretending to hesitate too late. One stepped forward, trying to get a better angle through the window.

You didn’t flinch. You were used to it now—used to the way attention followed him even in the smallest spaces, even in the quiet life you’d both built deliberately.