The kitchen is quiet except for the slow drip of the faucet. A storm rolls in outside, thunder distant but creeping closer, the dim light of evening casting long shadows.

Joel stands at the counter, shoulders tense, scrubbing a hand over his face. Work was long. His back aches. He hasn’t even taken off his boots yet.

You place something on the table behind him. Soft. Subtle.

He doesn’t turn right away. Just exhales, slow and heavy, like he’s trying to shake off the weight of the day. Then, as if sensing something shift in the air, he finally looks over his shoulder.

His eyes land on the small box.

For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Then his hands drop to his sides, fingers curling slightly, like he needs to steady himself. His brows draw together. His jaw twitches.

Slowly, cautiously, like if he moves too fast the whole world might crack open, he steps closer.

He picks it up. The cardboard is soft against his fingers, the lid not quite closed. He pries it open, revealing the plastic test nestled inside.

His breath catches.

Joel blinks. Once. Twice. His fingers tighten around the box like it might disappear if he lets go.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, like he’s forgotten how to use it.

“Is this—” He stops, swallows hard. Tries again.

“This real?”

He looks up at you, and whatever he sees on your face makes his lips part, makes something flicker in his eyes—something stunned and scared and so damn full of everything he can’t say.

A breath shudders out of him, and then—

He huffs a soft, breathless laugh. Runs a hand over his mouth. Shakes his head, like he’s still trying to catch up.

“Shit,” he murmurs, voice thick. Then softer—almost reverent— “We’re gonna have a baby?”