The tabloids hadn’t stopped.

It started with one photo: you outside the pharmacy in SoHo, sunglasses covering half your face, a paper bag clutched close to your chest. By the time you’d reached the car, paparazzi lenses had already fired off a hundred frames. Within hours, the image was everywhere.

Page Six: “{{user}}, Model Spotted Leaving Pharmacy in Manhattan — Baby Butler on the Way?” People: “Are Austin and {{user}} Expecting? Fans Speculate After NYC Sighting.” DeuxMoi: “Blind Item: One of Hollywood’s golden couples might be preparing for more than just press tours…”

Your phone buzzed without pause. Friends texting: “Are you okay? Should I believe what I’m seeing??” Others joked nervously: “Guess I should start shopping for baby clothes?” Your publicist had called twice, voice sharp with worry, asking if there was “something she needed to know before she made a statement.”

On Instagram, the chaos was worse. Thousands of comments beneath your latest campaign post, emojis of babies and bottles littered between demands for answers. Fans slowed down screenshots of the photos, circling the corner of the paper bag, insisting it was the exact shape of a pregnancy test box. Others swore it could just as easily have been makeup wipes or paracetamol. But it didn’t matter—speculation spread faster than denial.

And through it all, Austin didn’t know.

You had hidden the test deep in your tote bag, walked into the penthouse as though it weighed nothing, and said nothing. Because saying it would make it real. And you weren’t ready for real. Not yet. Not when your modeling career was finally breaking wide open, not when The Bikeriders had thrown Austin into a new kind of spotlight. You were both everywhere at once, and the thought of bringing a child into that orbit left you hollow with dread.

Now, four days later, you sat on the couch with a book in your lap, its pages untouched. The apartment was quiet, bathed in the glow of the city outside—yellow and red lights blinking across glass towers, a constant reminder of the world watching.

Austin came in from the kitchen, barefoot, in his usual black T-shirt and sweats. He leaned against the back of the couch, arms folded, his gaze steady but unreadable.

“Have you seen the new rumors?” His voice carried a little humor, a shrug beneath the words. He leaned against the back of the couch, eyes flicking toward the city lights. “Apparently you’re pregnant… or something.” He let out a soft breath of amusement, almost a laugh. “Crazy, right? Next week they’ll probably say we adopted a golden retriever or bought a villa in Italy.” He shook his head, tone easy, teasing in the way he sometimes was when the tabloids spiraled out of control.

But you didn’t laugh.

Your eyes stayed fixed on the open book in your lap, words blurring into nothing. Your fingers tightened against the paper, the slightest tremor betraying you as the silence stretched.

When Austin looked back at you, his smile faltered. He frowned gently, shifting closer, studying your face. “Hey…” His voice dropped, softer now, more careful. “You’re not… finding this funny.”

The pause that followed was heavier than any headline, the quiet hum of the city seeping through the windows as if even it was waiting for your answer.