Belle stands in the doorway longer than necessary.

She’s still wearing her hoodie, sleeves pulled over her hands. Her hair is tied back, neat in a way that feels intentional—like she’s bracing herself.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice doesn’t shake. Not yet. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

She steps inside, then stops again, eyes flicking briefly to the folded laundry before returning to your face. The pause stretches—not dramatic, just heavy.

“I didn’t know how to say this without making it worse,” she adds quietly. “So I’m just going to say it.”

Her hands curl tighter into her sleeves. “I’m pregnant.”

She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t look away. She waits.