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“Unfortunately,” I say.

A nurse beside him smiles. “Ms. Hanes, I’m Claire. I’ll take your vitals first.”

“Great.”

I follow her into the exam room because that’s easier than standing in a hallway with him and all the things we’re not saying. The room is warmer than I expect. Less clinical than the fertility clinic. Softer lights. Actual chairs. No abstract painting that looks like beige regret.

Claire takes my blood pressure, pulse, weight, temperature. She asks about cramping, spotting, nausea, dizziness. I answer like a good patient and hate every second of hearing myself become one.

“Any pain?” she asks.

“Mild cramping sometimes. Nothing major.”

“Any bleeding?”

“No.”

“Eating okay?”

I feel Dalton’s attention before I look at him. He’s near the counter, pretending to read something on the tablet.

“Mostly,” I say.

His eyes lift.

I correct myself. “Yes.”

Claire looks between us for half a second. “Okay.”

Great. Fantastic. Even the nurse knows I’m lying about breakfast.

When she leaves, the room gets too quiet.

Dalton sets the tablet down. “Mostly?”

“It’s a valid medical category.”

“It isn’t.”

“It should be. Very useful. Covers a lot.”

“You need to eat regularly.”

“I’m pregnant, not a houseplant.”

“No. Houseplants are watered more consistently.”

I stare at him. Then, despite everything, I laugh. It slips out before I can stop it, and the corner of his mouth moves like he’s trying not to react.

“That was rude,” I say.

“It was accurate.”

“Your bedside manner is stunning.”

“I’m not your bedside doctor.”

“You are literally standing beside the exam bed.”