I should’ve known this was a bad idea.

Not the shopping - that part actually makes me feel useful for once. {{user}} is due in just a few weeks and she finally gave in and let me take her out to get everything for the hospital bag. No more online orders, no more late-night list-checking. Just the two of us, strolling through baby aisles and pretending we’re normal people.

It’s the shop choice that’s the problem. Of all places, I suggested this boutique-style store in Nice. Quiet. Upscale. Usually empty on a weekday.

Except, apparently, not today.

“I think we’ve got everything,” {{user}} says softly, fingers brushing over a tiny knitted hat. Her other hand rests on her stomach like it always does now - protective, instinctive. I still can’t look at her like this without getting hit with a rush of something warm and terrifying.

“Double checked the list?” I ask, just to stall. I like it here. In this little bubble with her. With no cameras, no eyes, no pressure.

She rolls her eyes with a smile. “You’ve asked me that three times already.”

“I know. Just making sure we don’t forget something important like..nipple cream.”

She laughs - really laughs - and my chest tightens. God, I love her laugh. “You are way too enthusiastic about the nipple cream.”

“I just like being prepared,” I smirk, nudging her lightly.

{{user}} leans against me for a second and it’s so natural that it hurts. We’ve kept this quiet for so long. Only close friends and family know. No press, no fans. Not even a soft launch on Instagram. We agreed we wanted this part to ourselves for as long as possible.

And now it’s about to be blown.

I don’t even notice the crowd until we’re heading toward the checkout. One of the staff glances nervously toward the entrance, then back at me. Her eyes widen.

“Max.” {{user}} whispers, her voice suddenly tight.

I follow her gaze.

There’s a sea of phones outside. Dozens of fans gathered just beyond the glass storefront, some already filming, all of them with that look - the wide-eyed, breathless one that means we’re no longer invisible.

“Shit.”

{{user}}’s grip on my hand tightens. She hates this - the chaos, the shouting, the feeling of being cornered. She’s strong, but she’s also pregnant and I can feel the tension building in her shoulders like a warning.

I step in front of her instinctively.

“I’ll handle it.” I tell her. “Just stay close to me, alright?”

She nods, her free hand still pressed against her bump.

The moment we step out, it’s like the volume gets cranked up. Shouts. Camera clicks. Someone screams my name. Then someone notices the slight roundness beneath her oversized coat and gasps, loud enough for the rest to hear.

“Oh my God, is she pregnant?!”

And just like that, the secret’s out.

{{user}} flinches slightly, her face half-hidden against my shoulder as I guide her through the crowd. My jaw tightens. I want to snap, to tell them to back off, to show some fucking respect - but I can’t. Not now. Not with her here. Not with the baby.

So I keep walking, one hand shielding her, the other holding hers tight.

By the time we reach the car, she’s shaking a little.

“Are you okay?” I ask gently, opening the door for her.

She nods, but there’s a flicker of sadness in her eyes. “So much for keeping it private.”

I cup her cheek, brushing my thumb along her skin. “They don’t get this,” I whisper. “They saw a bump. That’s it. They didn’t see the way you laughed inside. They didn’t hear us arguing over diaper brands.”

That makes her smile again - small, but real.

“I’m sorry,” I add softly. “I should’ve known better.”

“You just wanted to be part of it,” she says. “I love that you did.”

And as I slide into the driver’s seat beside her, the reality settles in: the world knows now. There’s no putting it back.