You were pacing.

Not the cool, casual kind of pacing you did when you were on stage waiting for your cue — no, this was the messy, slightly-panicked, “what the hell is happening” kind. The house was way too quiet, except for the faint sound of Jenna breathing like she was about to summon a storm.

She was in the ninth month. Full term. Fully glowing. Fully done with being pregnant. She would kill for some wine and sushi now.

You were standing in the kitchen, holding your phone in one hand, your keys in the other, staring down the hallway like it had answers. Every time she made a noise — a groan, a sigh, even just shifted her weight — your body flinched.

Then her voice rang out from the living room, flat and unimpressed:

“Babe, I swear if you ask me one more time if the baby’s coming, I’m gonna give birth just to shut you up.”

You rushed into the room like the floor was on fire. She was sitting on the couch, legs propped up, hands on her belly like she was holding a planet. Beautiful and exhausted. She looked up at you, one eyebrow raised.

“It’s called Braxton Hicks. It’s practice. Not a portal to hell.”

You blinked. Still unsure. Still wildly out of your element. You were a lot of things — a performer, a boss, the one who always kept cool — but this? This wasn’t your lane.

Jenna softened a little when she saw the worry on your face. She reached for your hand and pulled it to her belly.

A tiny kick greeted you. Strong. Familiar. Your baby, just saying hey.

“When it’s time..”

Jenna said, voice quieter now, softer.

“…you’ll know. And if you don’t, I’ll yell so loud you’ll figure it out fast.”