The house smelled like garlic and something sweet baking, but you didn’t expect the sudden hush when you stepped inside. You were just home from work, still wearing your barista hat, still fighting sleep, and now—everyone was here.

Charlie. Your mom. Phil.

Paul’s dad.

And Paul.

He sat at the kitchen table, his knee bouncing restlessly under it. He looked up the second you entered. You didn’t meet his eyes.

You set your keys down slower than usual.

No one spoke. Just the faint sound of the oven ticking and your pulse in your ears.

You knew what this was.

It had only been a few days since Bella’s wedding—since you sat beside Paul for the first time in months, too close to breathe and too tense to move. He hadn’t said anything, not really. Just glanced your way once or twice like he could sense something.

Because he could. Or maybe one of the Cullens had told him what you hadn’t.

Carlisle was the one who confirmed it after all, quietly, after pulling you aside the next day. Three months and two weeks along—but progressing faster. He didn’t seem surprised. Rosalie had been gentle when she stayed with you that night, brushing your hair back and humming quietly when you couldn’t stop crying.

Now, you looked around and swallowed hard. Paul’s dad looked torn between concern and confusion. Charlie cleared his throat.

“Did you eat?” he asked, voice too calm.

You shook your head. “Not hungry.”