It was summer-slick heat in Brooklyn, the kind that stuck to your skin like a secret. The kind that made it easy to pretend the world outside didn’t exist when {{user}} was curled up on Anthony’s couch, windows cracked just enough for the hum of the city to slip in.

“Two more months,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “Just two more months of sneaking around.”

She nodded, even though her stomach was already turning for a different reason.

Anthony Ramos was everything she wasn’t supposed to fall for during a Broadway run. But between stolen glances backstage at Hamilton and late-night train rides back to his place in Bed-Stuy, it became inevitable. What began as whispered “you up?” texts turned into toothbrushes left on sinks and playlists made for quiet Sunday mornings.

The plan was to keep it quiet. Let the show run its course, let things settle. But now {{user}} was five weeks late.

She stared at the stick in her hand, sitting on the edge of Anthony’s bathtub while muffled jazz from his speaker filled the apartment. The pink plus sign stared back. She blinked. It didn’t go away.

He found her there, door half-shut, head in her hands.

“You okay, baby?”

she looked up, eyes glassy. “I’m pregnant.”

Time stopped. Then—

A breath. A beat.

Then his arms were around her, holding tight. “Okay,” he whispered into her shoulder. “Okay. We’re gonna be okay.”

she sniffed. “We were supposed to wait.”

Anthony leaned back just enough to look her in the eye. “So we tell them. Screw the press, the rumors, the contract clauses. This is real. You’re real. And now…” He placed a hand on her stomach, his voice cracking. “Now there’s more.”