"Because it's not planned! Because everything's chaos! Because I kept it secret for days!"
"Emma, I've known for a few days."
I freeze. "What?"
"I found the CVS receipt. Five pregnancy tests and prenatal vitamins. I'm a trained observer. I've been making you bland food and stocking pickles and waiting for you to tell me when you were ready."
"You KNEW?" I yell while simultaneously pushing him back.
"The pickles were a pretty big clue."
I stare at him. "And you didn't say anything?"
"You needed to tell me in your own time. I wasn't going to push."
"But I kept lying! I kept hiding it!"
"You were scared. I understood that."
Now, I'm crying again. "You're too patient with me."
"I'm really not. I've been researching pregnancy symptoms at 2 AM and stress-organizing the garage. But I waited. Because you needed to come to me."
"I should have told you sooner."
"You're telling me now. That's what matters." He glances at the pamphlets in his hand. "So. Six weeks. What did the doctor say?"
And just like that, we're talking. Actually talking. I tell him about the appointment, the symptoms, the recommendations. He listens, asks questions, doesn't freak out when I mention that I'm supposed to reduce stress.
"The Preston merger," he says. "You're thinking about accepting it."
"The doctor said the benefits are good. Maternity leave, support staff. Everything I need to actually survive this."
"Then accept it."
"But that means admitting I can't handle my practice alone?—"
"Emma. You're pregnant. Running a solo practice while growing a human. Nobody can handle that alone. It's not failure. It's logistics. It’s smart."
I lean against him. "Everything has to be decided today."
"Then we decide together. Tonight. All of it. Celtic Knot vote, Preston merger, everything."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. You, me, our little pickle, and decision-making." He kisses my forehead. "We're a team. Start acting like it."
I laugh despite myself. "You're very bossy."
"Someone has to be. You've been spiraling for a week."
"You watched me spiral for a week and said nothing?"
"I made you bland food. That's saying something."
Fair point.
We walk to the oak tree where he proposed. Sit on the bench underneath it. Miles keeps his arm around me while I tell him everything—the fears, the stress, the overwhelming sense that I'm failing at everything.
