"Right. The ultrasound. Where we find out if Bean is a boy or girl."
"If you don’t want to know. We don't have to—"
"I want to know." She props herself up on one elbow, and the sheet falls away, revealing the t-shirt of mine she wore to bed. "Don't you?"
"I want whatever you want."
"That's a cop-out answer."
"It's a diplomatic answer."
She pokes my chest. "I'm pregnant with your baby and living in your penthouse. I don't need diplomacy. I need honesty."
I catch her hand, bringing it to my lips. "Honestly? I'm terrified either way. Boy or girl doesn't matter. What matters is that in four and a half months, we're going to have an actual human who depends on us not to screw them up too badly."
"Wow. Inspiring speech. Real father-of-the-year material."
"I'm serious, Emma."
"So am I." She leans down, kissing me softly. "We're going to screw up. That's parenting. But we're going to screw up together, which means we'll at least have someone to blame when our kid needs therapy."
I laugh. "That's your pep talk?"
"It's realistic. Which is better than whatever bullshit Pinterest version you're imagining." She settles back against my chest.
I wrap my arms around her, feeling the slight swell of her stomach against mine, and let myselfbelieve it.
That we can do this. That I can do this. That being a father doesn't mean being perfect—it means being present.
"I love you," I say quietly.
"I know." Her fingertips flick the sparse hair on my chest. "You built me a nursery. That's basically a declaration of love in home renovation language."
"I'd build you a hundred nurseries."
"Let's start with one and see how it goes."
We lie there in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and I find myself thinking about the past week.
About Emma moving in officially—her few belongings blending with mine, her clothes in my closet, her toothbrush next to mine.
About the late-night conversations we've been having, working through all the fears and wounds we've been carrying.
About the way she laughs at my awful cooking jokes while I make pasta, and the way I'm learning to readher moods—when she needs space versus when she needs closeness.
And it's real. Better than any fantasy I could have imagined.
"We should talk," Emma says, breaking the silence.
"That sounds ominous."
"Not ominous. Just... practical." She sits up fully, pulling her knees to her chest. "We need to figure out the logistics. Work. Living arrangements. How we're going to handle all the gossip when people realize we're together."
"I've been thinking about that."
"Of course you have. You're Donovan. You probably have a spreadsheet."
"I have several spreadsheets."
