The next morning, 6:37 a.m.

Mikey’s already up. Dressed. Coffee brewed. Breakfast on the table. He even folded your scrubs and laid them out like a museum exhibit—complete with a Post-it that says, “For the most divine organism to ever wear cotton.”

You stumble out of bed, still full from yesterday.

You: “Did you seriously wake up before sunrise?”

Mikey: (without turning around, pouring eggs into the pan)
“Had to. What if you were hungry again? What if you craved mangoes flown in from the Andes? Or, I don’t know, freshly churned goat’s milk from an Alpine village? I need to be ready.”

You squint. “You think I’m pregnant again, don’t you?”

He turns, serious as ever.
“K, I know the signs. You walked slower yesterday. You touched your stomach twice. You smiled at a baby for half a second. And don’t even get me started on the fifth scoop.”

You stare at him.

Then sit down, reach for a slice of toast, and say casually:

“Well… it’d be three this time.”

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

Just sets the spatula down slowly like he’s diffusing a bomb and walks over, dropping to his knees in front of you.

Mikey: “Three. As in… one plus two? Like… plural?”

You: “That’s usually what ‘three’ means, yeah.”

He puts his head on your lap.
Whispers into your thigh:
“God is real.”

Five minutes later, he’s packing your bag, his bag, printing out prenatal meal plans, and calling the school to ask if it’s legal for a nursing student to take his exams in the maternity ward “just in case.”

You just sit there, sipping your tea like none of this is your fault.