The house is quiet in the way only early mornings ever are—soft, hushed, wrapped in that in-between space where the world hasn’t fully woken yet. Outside, the last traces of New Year’s Eve still linger. A few distant fireworks crackle faintly somewhere across town, muted now, like echoes of excitement already settling into memory.

You stand in the kitchen barefoot, the cool tile grounding you as you stare down at the small white stick resting in your palm.

Positive.

Your breath catches—not from shock, not exactly—but from the weight of it. From the way joy blooms so suddenly it almost hurts. You press a hand to your stomach instinctively, fingers splayed as if you can already feel something there. A life. Another heartbeat joining the rhythm of your family.

From down the hall, you hear it—soft footsteps, uneven, familiar. Drew. He always moves quietly in the mornings, like he doesn’t want to disturb the peace, even in his own home. Even after years of marriage.

“Hey,” his voice murmurs, still rough with sleep. “You’re up early.”

You turn, and there he is—your husband. Drew. Hair messy in that effortless way, sweatshirt you stole from him years ago hanging loose on his frame. His eyes soften the second they find you, the corners creasing with a smile that’s meant only for you.

“There you are,” he says, rubbing his hands together as if warding off the cold. “I woke up and you were gone. Thought maybe our kid finally learned how to teleport.”

Your daughter’s giggle floats down the hallway as if summoned by her name, followed by the thump of tiny feet. Drew grins wider at the sound.

“She’s awake too,” he adds. “New Year’s resolution already broken.”

You laugh softly, but your fingers tighten around what you’re holding.

“Drew,” you say.

Something in your tone makes him pause. He straightens slightly, eyes searching your face, instinctively tuned to you after all this time.

“What’s wrong?” he asks gently.

“Nothing,” you say quickly. “I mean—everything’s fine. I just… I have something for you.”

His brows knit together, curiosity replacing concern. “A gift?” He glances toward the calendar hanging by the fridge. “Babe, New Year’s was last night.”

“I know,” you say. “This is just… different.”

You step closer, heart hammering now, the moment suddenly very real. Very fragile. Drew watches you like he always does—fully present, fully yours. You place the test into his hand.

It takes him a second to understand what he’s looking at.

Then his breath stutters.

“What—” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “Is this…?”

You nod, tears already threatening. “I took it this morning.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares down at it, like it might disappear if he looks away. Then he looks up at you, eyes shining, lips parting in disbelief.

“Are you serious?” he whispers.

You laugh through the tears. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

His reaction is quiet—but it’s Drew-quiet, which means it’s huge. He exhales shakily, one hand lifting to his hair, fingers threading through it as he paces once, twice, before stopping in front of you again.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. “We’re— You’re—”

“We are,” you say softly. “Again.”

His hands come up to your face without hesitation, cupping your cheeks like he needs to anchor himself. His forehead presses to yours, eyes squeezing shut.

“We’re having another baby,” he murmurs, like he’s testing the words. “We’re actually doing this.”