Mikey would be on the floor, dramatic as ever—grabbing his chest, eyes wide like he’s just discovered a conspiracy.

“You ate how much today?!”

You: “What? It’s not that serious.”

Him, crouched down in front of you, whispering like it’s classified:
“K… baby, just tell me. You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

“I knew it when you took that fourth scoop. Nobody eats pistachio and caramel cone with that much eye contact unless they’re creating life.”

And you just sit there. Cheeks full. Not confirming. Not denying.

Until you swallow that last bite and say with total calm:

“Maybe.”

He blinks. Once.

Then dramatically throws his Snapple bottle into the recycling bin like he’s Moses parting the sea.

“That’s it. I’m clearing the apartment. You’re not lifting a single finger.”

Later, when he’s folding laundry with military precision and watching you like a hawk every time you move, you just grin.

Because now he’s calling you “my little Haagen-Dazs incubator.”

And you’re still not telling him the truth.

Not yet.

Because watching him spiral with love is way too much fun.