Morning came quietly.
Too quietly.
I noticed because Ha-rin didn't emerge at her usual time.
The kitchen light was already on when I stepped out of my room. The clock read 7:12 a.m.
She was seated at the table, both hands wrapped around a mug she hadn't touched.
"…You're awake early," I said.
"…I didn't sleep much," she replied.
That was expected.
Today was her fourth checkup.
The serious one.
"…You don't have to stare at it," she added, glancing at the untouched mug.
"It will get cold," I said.
"…I know."
She still didn't drink.
I moved to the counter and prepared breakfast. Nothing heavy. Nothing unfamiliar.
She watched silently.
"…What time is the appointment," she asked.
"9:40," I replied. "We should leave by 8:50."
"…That's early."
"It allows margin."
"…You and your margins."
"Yes."
She exhaled and finally lifted the mug, taking a small sip before setting it down again.
"…They'll see everything today, right," she asked.
"Yes."
"…Like— everything."
"Yes."
She frowned.
"…That's not comforting."
"It is accurate."
She shook her head.
"…You really don't know how to lie."
"That is intentional."
She leaned back slightly in her chair, one hand resting unconsciously near her abdomen.
She noticed a second later and moved it away.
I noticed too.
I did not comment.
"…They said this scan takes longer," she said quietly.
"Yes."
"…Because the baby is bigger."
"Yes."
She stared at the table.
"…It feels strange."
"In what way."
"…Like things are moving even when nothing is."
"That is common," I replied.
She glanced up at me.
"…You sound very sure."
"I researched."
"…Of course you did."
She stood and adjusted her jacket, then paused.
"…Does this look obvious," she asked, tugging lightly at the fabric.
"No," I replied.
"…You didn't even look."
"I did."
"…Liar."
"I assessed quickly."
She studied my face, then sighed.
"…Okay."
A moment passed.
"…They might ask if I want to know," she said.
"Yes."
"…What do you think."
"That is your decision."
"…You're not curious."
"I am," I replied. "But curiosity does not override preference."
She nodded slowly.
"…I don't think I want to know yet."
"That is reasonable."
"…If we know, it becomes too real," she added quietly.
"It already is," I said.
She didn't argue.
When we left the apartment, she walked a little slower than usual. Not hesitant. Just deliberate.
I matched her pace.
The drive was silent.
Not awkward.
Focused.
As we parked near the clinic, she unbuckled her seatbelt and paused.
"…You're coming in with me, right," she asked, not looking at me.
"Yes."
She nodded once.
"…Good."
As we stepped out of the car, she took a breath deeper than necessary.
I noticed.
Today wasn't about teasing.
Or denial.
Or pretending.
Today was about seeing what had quietly been growing all this time.