The word “pregnant” hung in the air like smoke after a gunshot.
For a long heartbeat no one moved.
Matthew was still inside me, hips locked flush to mine, his breath hot against my cheek.
The others were frozen in place around us—hands still on my skin, eyes wide and shining in the firelight.
Then the room exhaled.
Luke let out a shaky laugh that cracked into something rawer.
James dropped his forehead to my shoulder, murmuring “our baby” against my collarbone like a prayer.
John’s fingers tightened around mine until it almost hurt.
Mark’s palm flattened over my stomach again—protective, possessive—while a slow, stunned grin spread across his face.
Matthew lifted his head.
His eyes were wet.
He kissed me—soft, trembling—then whispered against my lips, “You’re carrying our baby.”
