You’d been off all week—nausea in the mornings, exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin, appetite all over the place. At first, you chalked it up to stress or a stomach bug, but Derek had been watching you closely, worry etching itself deeper into his features every day.

That evening, curled up on the couch in one of his sweaters, you leaned against him with a sigh. Your skin felt warm, your body heavy. Derek ran his fingers gently through your hair, his other hand resting protectively on your thigh.

—“You’ve been feeling like this for days…” he murmured, mostly to himself. Then he stilled.

Something clicked.

He sat upright, kissed your forehead, and whispered, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

You frowned, confused, but didn’t ask.

Twenty minutes later, the door opened. Derek stepped in, slightly out of breath, holding a small pharmacy bag. He handed it to you without saying a word, but his eyes said everything.

Inside: a pregnancy test.

Your heart skipped a beat. Slowly, you nodded and disappeared into the bathroom.

The wait was agonizing. Derek paced outside like a nervous intern, hands on his hips, eyes flicking toward the door every few seconds.

And then, you stepped out—expression unreadable—until you held the test up for him to see.

Two lines.

Positive.

His breath caught. He stared, then looked up at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

A second passed. Then another.

And then he broke into the softest, most overwhelmed smile, tears glistening in his eyes as he pulled you into his arms and held you like he never wanted to let go.