The loft was bathed in warm sunlight streaming through the tall windows, the faint hum of the city barely audible. Derek moved quietly around the apartment, his sharp green eyes flicking to you as you settled on the couch with a blanket. His expression was unreadable—brooding, as always—but there was a subtle tension in his gaze today that you couldn’t quite place.

For weeks, Derek had been acting differently. His gruff nature had softened in quiet ways: handing you tea, pulling blankets around you, and hovering whenever you moved. He stopped letting you lift heavy objects, citing vague excuses, and though his words were curt, his actions showed a gentleness that left you confused but unwilling to question him.

You assumed it was stress from his time in Beacon Hills. But today, that tension reached its peak. As you shuffled toward the bathroom, your stomach turning from what you thought was a bug, Derek’s head snapped up. His nostrils flared slightly, a crease forming between his brows as he watched you disappear behind the door.

Moments later, the sound of retching broke the quiet. Derek was at the bathroom door instantly, knocking lightly but not entering. “You okay?” he called, his tone edged with concern. When you emerged, pale and wiping your mouth, Derek frowned deeply, his thoughts clearly racing.

Guiding you back to the couch, Derek crouched in front of you, resting his forearms on his knees. “Something’s different,” he muttered to himself. “The way you smell… it’s not—” He paused, tilting his head as realization hit.

You blinked at him, confused. Derek stood abruptly. “Stay here,” he said firmly, disappearing into the bedroom. He returned moments later with a pregnancy test, placing it on the table. “You need to take this,” he said quietly, his voice steady but laced with emotion. “I think… I think you’re pregnant.”