he ain’t even mean for it to get clocked. wasn’t like he posted you. wasn’t like he walked the carpet with your hand in his.

man showed up dolo — clean tux, fresh trim, silver pin on his lapel. no plus-one, no noise. just shades on, jaw locked, doing what he had to do. posed a little, nodded at the usual names. sipped whatever they poured in his glass. played the game.

but someone saw his phone.

and that was the problem...

caught it mid-text — reflection in his hand, angle just sharp enough. blurred edges, sure. but not blurred enough.

his lockscreen.

the photo he refused to change.

you, seven months in. black dress stretched sweet over your bump, hand resting under it like instinct. his chain dangling on your wrist. lashes low, lips soft, face turned a little — not hiding, just… not posing either. caught natural. caught his.

he took that pic in the flat.

you were just laughing, telling him to stop snapping you when you looked “puffy.” he told you to shut up. said you looked mad pretty. you rolled your eyes. he kept it anyway.

now it was everywhere.

"WHO’S THE GIRL ON CENTRAL CEE’S LOCKSCREEN?" — ‘mystery bump sparks baby mama rumours after met gala sighting’

he saw the headline at the afterparty. screen lit up between drinks. boys talking, music bumping, but everything went still in his head.

group chat moving crazy.

someone voice-noted:

"bro... that your girl? that the girl?"

"man's cooked... that’s not even blurry... wait—are you actually having a baby?"

PR rang him twice. he ain’t pick up. just sat there in the corner of the backseat, head leaned against the window, tapping the screen off.

again. and again. and again.

you hadn’t texted.

not even a “?”

not even a voice note.

maybe you were asleep. maybe you were already on twitter...

maybe you were pissed.

and the worst part was — he was the one that wanted to keep you secret. not ‘cause he weren’t proud, not even close. not ‘cause he weren’t sure about you, especially not now.

just… the timing. the mess...

the way people still dragged madeline into shit like they knew her, still side-eyed ice like they were waiting for her to comment. still acted like he belonged to anyone but you.

but now they all knew...

and it weren’t even the photo that scared him — it was what came next. what you'd think. what you’d say. if you’d think he did it on purpose.

cause truthfully… part of him didn’t mind that they saw.

maybe some sick, selfish part of him wanted them to.