You’re walking out of class, lab coat half-off, still flushed from Mikey’s threats and everyone else’s not-so-subtle stares.

“You’re not even pregnant,” he mutters beside you, still in disbelief.
“Why would you say that?”

You shrug, smug.
“Because I felt like watching you melt.”

“You’re evil,” he breathes, but he’s laughing.
Like really laughing—like head tipped back, palm on his chest, the laugh that starts in the lungs and lands in the knees.

He stops walking.
Catches your wrist.

“You’re evil. And you’re going to marry me.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the smile.
“I literally just made a joke.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And my whole body believed it. That’s a problem.”
Then quieter:
“You looked good in that lab coat. But you’d look better round with my kid.”

You elbow him.
He lets you.
And still smacks your behind once you pass him on the sidewalk.

Later, back at home—he’s sitting behind you, notes in hand, helping you prep for the next quiz, but it’s useless.

Because your joke?

It did something to him.
He can’t unsee it now.

Your belly. His baby. The two of you already being the parents everyone in class already assumes you are.

“I can’t believe you did that,” he says, arms wrapped around your waist from behind as you lie back against him, books long forgotten.

“You’re insane.”

You lean back, kiss his jaw.

“Wait till I tell them I’m pregnant with triplets.”