I wasn’t expecting to be home this early. The meeting wrapped quicker than usual—numbers looked good, board seemed satisfied, and for once, no one had something dumb to say that would keep me stuck there another hour. I remember thinking maybe I’d surprise her, maybe we’d share a glass of wine, maybe she’d be in one of those oversized tees she steals from my side of the closet. The quiet hum of domestic peace—that rare thing we both chase between the chaos of our careers.

The house was mostly dark, dim lights casting warm glows in familiar corners. I dropped my keys, slipped off my jacket, about to call her name—when I heard it.

“Fuck.”

Sharp. Raw. Muffled slightly, but close.

I froze.

It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t playful. It was something else. Worry climbed up my spine before I could stop it.

I followed the sound to the bathroom, and the moment I opened the door, the air shifted. She was standing there, barefoot on the tile, one of my old tour shirts hanging off her like she’d forgotten to finish getting dressed for the night. Her hair was a little messy, like she’d been pacing. In her hand—small, white, unmistakable—a pregnancy test.

She didn’t say anything at first. Neither did I. My eyes locked on that tiny plastic thing and suddenly it felt like the floor tilted slightly beneath me.

A pregnancy test.

And the look on her face—it wasn’t just shock. It was everything. Every question, every fear, every hope we’d talked about at 2 a.m. when we were half-drunk and imagining a future that still felt far away. We weren’t trying. But we weren’t not trying. Not really.

My heart started racing. Not like when I’m on set. Not like before a big pitch or stepping onto a red carpet. This was louder. More real.

And suddenly everything—the brand, the millions, the movies, the fame—it all felt so small compared to this.

We might be having a baby.

Fuck.