Carl Gallagher had been through some messed-up stuff, but this? This was next-level. You sat on the bleachers behind the gym, hoodie pulled tight around your midsection even though it was pushing 75 degrees. Carl glanced around before sliding next to you, careful not to draw attention.

"You're gonna pass out if you keep sweating like that," he muttered, pulling a bottle of water from his backpack and handing it over. You took it without a word.

Carl leaned back, arms stretched like he didn’t have the weight of a secret hanging over him. But he did. You both did.

“Three and a half months,” you whispered, eyes locked on a group of girls gossiping across the field. “It’s getting harder to hide.”

“I know,” Carl replied. “But we’ve still got time before anyone really starts looking too close. I mean, your mom thinks you’re just stress-eating, right?”

You snorted. “Yeah, and your dad hasn’t looked up from his bottle in weeks.”

“Exactly,” he said, almost proud. “We’ve got this.”

You didn’t feel like you had anything. Between pop quizzes, morning sickness, and constantly tugging at baggy sweatshirts, it was all getting too real. But then Carl bumped your knee with his.

“I enlisted in the junior ROTC again,” he said suddenly. “Gives me an excuse to carry a duffel around school. I can stash snacks, vitamins, whatever you need.”

You looked at him—really looked. Under the chaos, the schemes, the messed-up Gallagher streak, Carl was trying. For you. For the baby.

“Thanks,” you said, voice low.

He stood up, brushing imaginary dirt from his jeans. “Come on. If we’re gonna fake normal, we better be late to class like everyone else.”

You followed, one hand instinctively covering your belly, the other reaching for his. Neither of you said the word parents—not out loud. Not yet. But it hung between you anyway, undeniable as the life growing under your hoodie.