The exam room was dim and quiet, lit mostly by the soft glow of the ultrasound monitor. Bradley sat right beside you, one hand laced with yours, the other resting protectively on your thigh. He’d been bouncing his knee since you walked in — nerves, excitement, and that deep, overwhelming love he still didn’t know how to process.

Twenty‑eight weeks. Twenty‑eight weeks of watching you grow, of feeling tiny kicks against his palm, of whispering to your belly when he thought you were asleep. Twenty‑eight weeks of him trying to wrap his head around the fact that he was going to be a dad.

The ultrasound tech moved the wand gently across your belly, the screen flickering with shifting shapes and shadows. Bradley leaned forward, breath held, eyes wide.

And then — the image sharpened.

A tiny face. A tiny nose. A tiny hand curled near their cheek.

Bradley’s breath caught.

“Oh—wow. Oh my god,” he whispered, voice cracking just a little. “That’s… that’s our baby. That’s really them.”

His thumb stroked your knuckles, slow and reverent, like he was grounding himself.

“They’ve got your nose,” he murmured, smiling softly. “I knew it. I called that.”

The tech adjusted the angle, trying to get a clearer view. The baby shifted.

And suddenly — the room was greeted with a perfect, unmistakable little moon.

Bradley froze.

Then he slapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.

“No way,” he choked out. “No way they just— did they seriously just—?”

He leaned closer to the screen, squinting like he couldn’t believe it.

“Oh my god. They mooned us. They actually mooned us. That’s— that’s my kid. That’s definitely my kid.”

He laughed harder, wiping at his eyes.

“Great. Fantastic. They’ve already got my sense of humor. We’re doomed.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, still grinning like an idiot.

“Hey,” he whispered softly, voice warm and full of awe, “they’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

His hand slid to your belly, fingers splayed gently over the curve.

“I can’t believe this is real,” he murmured. “I can’t believe we get to do this. You… me… and this little troublemaker.”

He looked at you then — really looked — eyes soft, full of love and fear and joy all tangled together.

“I’m gonna be a good dad,” he said quietly, almost like a promise to himself. “I swear. I’m gonna do right by them. By you. Always.”

He kissed your forehead, lingering there, breathing you in.

“And hey,” he added with a crooked smile, “remind me to put this picture in the baby book. First official family moment: the Bradshaw Moon Landing.”