You were curled up against Joel on the couch, your legs draped over his and his arm slung around your shoulder, pulling you close like always. But tonight you couldn’t stop shifting, trying to find a position that didn’t make your stomach twist.

—“You alright?” he asked, voice low, rough from sleep.

—“Yeah,” you muttered. “Just nauseous. All the time lately.”

He hummed sympathetically, his hand idly sliding under the hem of your sweatshirt to rub your side in slow, grounding circles—until his fingers brushed something just a little firmer than usual.

He paused. Then gently pressed again.

—“What’s this?” he asked, eyes narrowing as he looked down at your stomach. He poked it softly. “Feels like… a bump?”

You held your breath.

Joel looked up, brows pulling together.

—“Wait… are you—?” His voice trailed off as his eyes searched yours, his hand still frozen on your stomach.

You didn’t have to answer. The look on your face said everything.

And just like that, Joel Miller forgot how to breathe.