The air was cold, too still. You sat on the edge of the bed in the makeshift medical room, staring at your hands, trembling, unsure, and slightly stained with dried ink from the sketch you’d abandoned hours ago. There were no pregnancy tests in the mountain. No doctors you could trust. Just your body, whispering a truth you didn’t want to face.

Three months late. Nausea in the morning. Dizziness. Exhaustion. You didn’t need confirmation. You were pregnant. And Bellamy didn’t know yet.

The door creaked open behind you. You knew that walk. Heavy boots, sure steps, always with a little impatience behind them. Bellamy.

“You skipped breakfast again,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Monty’s making that…whatever he calls food. You’re not gonna make me eat it alone, are you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He came closer, concern flickering across his face. “Hey,” he said, kneeling in front of you. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Your blue eyes met his, and suddenly the words lodged in your throat. You weren’t scared of Bellamy. You were scared of what this meant — for both of you.

“I’m late,” you whispered.

His brow furrowed. “Late for what?”