Legacy & Cameron – Always & Forever

The morning sunlight spilled through the kitchen windows of the Cameron Mansion, warm and golden, catching the steam rising from Blaine’s coffee. Lauren broke from their embrace and kiss — he wasn’t done yet — but she slipped away when a rumble outside made her freeze.

She darted to the window.

“They’re here! My things are here!”

Her voice was bright, breathless, sparkling with excitement. She turned to him like a child on Christmas morning, then bolted for the door.

Blaine smiled, shook his head, downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp, and followed her out to the driveway.

Lauren had taken the plunge.

A new job at the Del Sol Valley and San Sequoia medical centers owned by her father. A new home — the Cameron Mansion. A new dress – a sleek wedding gown – hanging in the closet he’d cleared for her, on the same side his mother once used when his parents still lived here. When they were “alive.”

She had officially moved in last weekend. It had been the best week of his life in a long, long time.

And in two weeks, they would be married.

Lauren didn’t wait for Blaine. She was already halfway to the truck, waving at the movers like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment. Blaine followed at a slower pace, coffee still warming his chest, a smile tugging at his mouth as he watched her practically vibrate with excitement.

The movers noticed him before he reached her.

“Holy shit—Blaine Cameron!”

“Agent Death was my entire personality for a year, man!”

“Bro, did you really do that rooftop fight? That was insane!”

Lauren stiffened. Blaine saw it immediately.

Then came the last one—loud, careless, too familiar.

“Is it true you nailed Angelique LeFleur? Man, that woman is so fucking hot. I’d give body parts for a night with that one.”

Lauren’s head snapped toward him so fast her ponytail whipped over her shoulder.

“He can’t socialize right now,” she said sharply. “He’s busy. And you all should be!” She shoved a heavy box into Blaine’s chest. “Inside. Please.”

“Yes ma’am,” Blaine grunted, adjusted his grip, and turned toward the house.

Behind him, the same mover scoffed under his breath—loud enough to be heard, quiet enough to pretend he didn’t mean it.

“Never meet your heroes. Thought Blaine Cameron was a real man. A cool dude. Guess he’s just another pussy‑whipped rich boy.”

Blaine stopped walking.

Lauren froze.

The other movers went silent.

Blaine didn’t turn around immediately. He inhaled once, slow and steady, the way he did before stunt fights on set. Then he pivoted, box still in his arms, expression calm in a way that made Lauren’s stomach drop.

“Say that again,” he said.

The mover smirked, emboldened by the audience. “You heard me.”

Lauren stepped forward. “Blaine—don’t.”

He didn’t listen.

The box hit the driveway with a thud.

The smirk vanished.

And the rest blurred—voices rising, boots scuffing gravel, Lauren shouting his name, the sharp crack of someone’s fist meeting someone’s jaw, the movers scrambling, Blaine’s temper snapping like a live wire.

It didn’t last long. It never did.

But when the dust settled, Lauren was dragging him inside by the wrist, muttering under her breath, and Blaine was touching the side of his face with a wince that told her exactly where the next scene needed to begin.

Negative Reviews

Lauren slammed her doctor bag onto the marble counter hard enough to rattle the soap dispenser.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, snapping open the latches with the kind of precision that meant she was furious.

Blaine sat on the closed toilet lid, elbows on his knees, one hand pressed to his eyebrow. Blood had dried in a thin line down the side of his nose. His lip was split. His cheekbone was already swelling.

“Agreed,” he said. “I’m thinking of writing that moving company a fiery Yelp review. Is it possible to give negative stars? I’m going with minus five.”

Lauren didn’t laugh. She didn’t even look at him.

She grabbed antiseptic, soaked a cotton pad, and stepped between his knees. Her fingers were steady; her jaw was not.

“Hold still.”

She dabbed the pad against his eyebrow. Blaine hissed, shoulders tightening.

“Blaine, I cannot believe you hit him.”

“Well,” he said, wincing as she moved to his nose, “he was talking trash. And he said he loved my fight scenes and wondered if I needed a stunt double. Now he knows firsthand that I do my own stunts until the producer and legal squad threaten me not to.”

She pressed harder than necessary. He flinched.

“And definitely not a—what was that again?” Blaine continued. “Pussy‑whipped rich boy.”

Lauren froze mid‑dab, then slowly lifted her eyes to his.

“Great job establishing your male dominance, Blaine. Truly impressive.” She moved to his lip. He hissed again. “And now we’ll get sued. Fantastic. They know who I am. I’m trying to establish myself at Dad’s medical centers as more than just the girl who happened to be born to the man who owns them. How competent do you think it looks when my fiancé beats up the movers?”

“Well, for what it is worth, they won’t wonder if your fiance is a pussy-whipped rich boy.”

“Movers,” she repeated, incredulous, ignoring him. “Men who haul heavy things for a living. How did you think this would go any other way than with you getting your face busted bloody?”

“Well,” Blaine said, shrugging one shoulder, “lucky for me I’m marrying a doctor.”

Lauren pulled back, eyes narrowing.

“If you keep going like this, you’re not marrying anyone. Or at least not me.” She turned away, gathering gauze. “Maybe Angelique LeFleur is still interested.”

Blaine’s smirk was instant. He loved her jealous. Loved the sharpness in her voice, the way her shoulders stiffened, the way she pretended she didn’t care.

He reached out, hooked two fingers into the waistband of her yoga pants, and tugged her backward onto his lap.

“Blaine—” she warned, “not when I’m holding scissors—”

He plucked them from her hand and yeeted them across the room. They clattered against the tile and skidded under the vanity.

Then he pulled her closer, hands sliding up her back, mouth brushing her jaw.

Lauren tried to stay angry. She really did.

But Blaine Cameron had always been her weakness — even when he was bleeding, even when he was stupid, even when he was absolutely asking for stitches.

“Stop it,” she said, breath catching.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, careful of her tools, careful of her anger, careful of the split lip she’d just cleaned.

“Make me,” he murmured.

Her fingers curled in his shirt. Her pulse jumped. Her irritation melted into something hotter, sharper, familiar.

And she hated that he knew it.

Breakfast for Champions

The next morning, Blaine stood at the kitchen counter with coffee, nibbling cold pizza while scrolling through his phone. His eyebrow was swollen, the cut now a thin red line. His lip was split, healing unevenly. A faint bruise shadowed the bridge of his nose — the kind that would bloom purple by noon. He looked like he’d lost a bar fight.

Lauren entered dressed in a fitted navy business suit, hair sleek, heels sharp enough to kill. She checked her wristwatch, already mentally halfway through her day.

She kissed his cheek in passing — careful to avoid the bruises — snatched the pizza from his hand, replaced it with a banana, and yeeted the slice into the trash with surgical precision.

“Unhealthy,” she said. “None of that on my watch.”

She joined him at the counter, poured almond milk into two bowls of muesli and berries, slid one toward him like a prescription.

“Breakfast for champions.”

Blaine stared at the bowl like it was a punishment. “Champions of what? Suffering?”

“Champions of not dying before forty,” Lauren said, sipping her coffee.

He ate anyway. He always did. She had that effect on him — the Old Guard Brindleton Bay upbringing, the generational discipline, the quiet authority of someone raised in a house where everything whispered East Coast old money. Lauren had grown up in the most expensive mansion on the Bay, surrounded by generations of Cunninghams: doctors, founders, philanthropists — people who had turned one family practice into a national, then international medical empire.

She was born into legacy. She carried it like a second spine.

Blaine came from legacy too — just a different kind. Del Sol Valley legacy. Celebrity legacy.

His parents’ mansion sat on the highest ridge of the hills, a sprawling estate built for premieres, scandals, and eight children spaced across decades. His father — Blaine Cameron Sr. — had been a loudmouth, gutterminded, impossible man, the kind who cursed on live television, flirted with reporters, mooned paparazzi during interviews, and had a long‑running habit of ending performances shirtless whether it was planned or not. His mother had been the opposite: composed, elegant, unshakeable.

They’d had eight kids — but Blaine Jr. was the last by a mile.

By the time he was born, every sibling had already moved out. All of them were married, most had children, and nearly all of those children were older than Blaine himself. A few siblings even had grandchildren closer to his age than their own kids. He didn’t grow up with siblings; he grew up visiting them, like distant relatives with complicated lives and calendars booked months in advance. They treated him more like a polite family friend than a brother.

When his parents were still “alive,” they kept the Cameron traditions going — holidays, birthdays, loud chaotic gatherings in the mansion. Attendance was full, every seat taken. But once his parents were gone, all of it stopped. Blaine tried to keep the celebrations alive, but invitations went unanswered, replies grew sparse, and eventually he gave up.

When he visited his siblings afterward, they were courteous but remote — strangers he happened to share DNA with. He grew lonely in that sprawling mansion, surrounded by staff who felt more like family than the people who were technically his own. The house echoed with absence.

He wanted to be a musician, like his father, but the breakthrough never came. Acting had been his second love, something he tried almost out of resignation — and that was what took off. He often wondered how nothing in his life had turned out the way anyone imagined, yet he was too wealthy, too privileged, to voice the ache without sounding pretentious or ungrateful.

Lauren, meanwhile, had grown up in the kind of New England family where elegance wasn’t performed — it was inherited. Siblings, half‑siblings, step‑siblings, parents, step‑parents, grandparents: all well‑mannered, soft‑spoken, and unfailingly present. Even through three divorces, her father kept the household steady, raising her and her older brother Graham — lost too young in a vacation accident — alongside the three younger half‑siblings from his later marriages. It was a world of propriety, quiet rooms, polished shoes, and people who showed up for one another.

And Lauren had followed the family tradition when she became a doctor, just like her father. Every generation of Cunninghams had produced at least one physician — usually more. With Graham gone, that legacy rested heavily on her shoulders. The next oldest, Nathaniel, had switched from med school to business when it became clear he didn’t have the stomach for becoming another Cunningham doctor. The two youngest sisters were still undecided, but neither showed the early, fierce certainty Lauren and Graham had at sixteen and seventeen. For now, the weight of the Cunningham medical dynasty fell squarely on Lauren — and she carried it the way she carried everything: quietly, competently, without complaint.

They were opposites. Oil and water. Old Guard and Hollywood. Brindleton Bay and Del Sol Valley.

Yet somehow they worked.

Lauren stirred her muesli, glancing at him over the rim of her mug. “You look worse today.”

“Thank you,” Blaine said. “I was hoping for ‘rugged’ or ‘dangerously handsome.’”

“You look like you lost a fight with a refrigerator.”

“It was a mover,” he corrected. “A very rude and very burly mover. At least twice my size.”

Lauren rolled her eyes. “I have meetings all day. Administrative ones. Not even patients. Just board members and department heads and Dad’s executive team. Please refrain from starting any more brawls at least until I am home.”

Blaine lifted his coffee. “To be fair, he started it.”

“No,” Lauren said. “He provoked you. You started it.”

He grinned. “Semantics.”

She set her bowl down, leaned against the counter, and looked at him properly — doctor eyes, assessing, cataloging.

“Your eyebrow needs another cleaning. Your lip might need a stitch. And your nose is going to bruise.”

“Will I survive?”

“Debatable.”

He smirked. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“And you’re insufferable when you’re injured.”

He reached for her hand, tugging her closer. “You love me injured. You get to nurture me and boss me around …”

“I love you alive,” she corrected. “Which is why you’re eating muesli instead of pizza.”

He sighed dramatically. “My suffering is endless.”

Lauren checked her watch again. “I have a nine‑thirty with the West Coast surgical directors. Then a noon call with San Myshuno HQ. Then a meeting with Dad’s expansion team. Not one patient. Just paperwork and politics.”

“You’re good at politics,” Blaine said.

“I hate politics. Obvious, seeing how I became a doctor and not a politician.”

“You’re still good at them.”

She softened — just a little. “I know.”

He reached out, brushed his thumb along her jaw. “You’re going to be incredible today.”

She kissed him again — careful, soft — then pulled back.

“And you,” she said, “are going to ice your face, stay out of trouble, and not fight anyone.”

“No promises.”

“Blaine.”

“Fine,” he sighed. “No fighting. I will the goodestest boy.”

She grabbed her bag, heels clicking toward the door. “Good. Because the wedding is in two weeks, and I refuse to marry a man with a black eye.”

He called after her, “You married me the moment you moved in. The wedding is just … paperwork, Mrs. Cameron. Aka Dr. Cameron.”

She paused at the doorway, turned, and smiled — that quiet, devastating Lauren smile that made him feel like the luckiest idiot alive.

“No, not yet,” she said. “But soon. That’ll be more paperwork. They just got my name on all the door signs and such. Maybe I will hyphenate, although that would be hellacious with all the things I have to sign all the time. Cameron-Cunningham. Good grief!”

Then she was gone, leaving Blaine in the kitchen with his muesli, his bruises, and the stupid grin he couldn’t wipe off his face. He stood there for a long moment, staring at the doorway she’d disappeared through, thumb brushing the fading cut on his eyebrow. It stung. His lip throbbed. His nose felt like someone had parked a truck on it.

Worth it.

He leaned back against the counter, coffee warming his palm, and let his mind drift — the way it always did when she left the room too quickly, when he missed her before she’d even reached the driveway.

How It All Began

It had started in Brindleton Bay.

Not the romantic version — not the “boy meets girl in a picturesque coastal town” version — but the real one. The messy one. The one he never admitted out loud.

Blaine had been shipped there.

His elite academy in Del Sol Valley hadn’t expelled him — that would’ve made headlines — but they’d suspended him quietly and arranged an exchange year with a private school on the East Coast. A trade. A cover‑up. A way to keep the Cameron name out of scandal columns.

He arrived in Brindleton Bay angry, humiliated, and determined to hate everything.

Lauren had been the only one who bothered with him.

She wasn’t impressed by his last name. She wasn’t dazzled by his fame. She wasn’t intimidated by his temper. She wasn’t interested in the Cameron legacy or the sprawling mansion he came from.

She took him under her wing because she was Lauren — because she was kind, because she was curious, because she was raised in a world where you helped people even when they didn’t deserve it.

She showed him the school hierarchy. Invited him to parties. Helped him with homework. Introduced him to her friends. Taught him how Brindleton Bay worked — the Old Guard etiquette, the unspoken rules, the generational expectations.

And somewhere between all that, he kissed her.

He still remembered the exact moment — the way she’d looked at him like she saw through every layer he tried to hide behind. The way her breath caught. The way her fingers curled in his shirt. The way the world stopped.

The semester ended too soon. The heartbreak lasted longer.

They tried long‑distance. They tried visiting. They tried growing up.

Then Blaine proposed at eighteen — impulsive, terrified, in love in a way he didn’t know how to handle. Lauren accepted, equally young, equally overwhelmed, equally unprepared.

Neither had a plan.

His temper, her expectations, their different worlds — everything cracked. His parents’ “death,” orchestrated by Cesare to return vampires to myth, broke him further. He said things he couldn’t take back. She gave back the ring.

Years passed. Bitterness settled. Life moved on — badly.

He spiraled. She hardened. They became strangers.

Until fate shoved them together again in a San Myshuno ER — the flagship Cunningham Medical Center, the one her family had built from a single Brindleton Bay practice into an empire.

She was the attending physician. He was the idiot actor who’d injured his wrist during a stunt.

She patched him up. He apologized. She didn’t forgive him immediately. He didn’t deserve it.

But they talked. And talked. And talked.

And somewhere between the sutures and the sarcasm, between the medical charts and the awkward silences, between the years of hurt and the years of longing — they found each other again.

He re‑proposed. She accepted.

Now they lived together. Almost married. Hopeful. Happy.

Except his parents wouldn’t be there.

And it killed him.

He pressed his thumb to the bruise on his cheekbone, exhaled slowly, and stared out the kitchen window at the sun climbing over Del Sol Valley — the hills where he’d grown up, the mansion where his parents had raised him, the legacy he’d inherited and never fully understood.

Lauren had her entire family coming to their wedding. He had… none. The Camerons who were still alive were estranged, scattered across the country, and he hadn’t kept up with his nieces and nephews or their families. They were strangers now — people who shared his last name and/or DNA but not his life.

The only ones he had any connection to were Briar Rose and her daughter Briony, and only because Bri had married Lauren’s father Brad. Briony had been around when he and Lauren were dating in high school — bright, curious, always underfoot — but she’d married into royalty, and her schedule was no longer her own. She probably wouldn’t attend.

Which meant that from the entire Cameron dynasty — the sprawling, chaotic, celebrity‑studded family he’d been born into — only one person would be at his wedding. And she wasn’t coming for him. She was coming because she’d married into the Cunningham family over a decade ago.

Stunning. Humbling. And it hurt more than he ever admitted.

The ache settled deep, familiar, unwelcome.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture it — the ceremony, the ocean, the vows, Lauren walking toward him in sunlight.

He could almost see it.

Almost.

But the empty chairs where his parents should’ve been sat heavy in his chest, a weight he couldn’t shake.

He swallowed hard, finished his coffee, and whispered into the quiet kitchen:

“Mom… Dad… I wish you were here.”

The Brindleton Bay Wedding

Blaine had never been this nervous.

Brindleton Bay stretched out around him in all its coastal glory — the harbor glittering under late‑morning sun, sailboats rocking gently, gulls crying overhead, and the crisp New England breeze carrying the scent of salt and hydrangeas. The small chapel sat at a historic plaza, tucked between manicured hedges and weathered shingle mansions — white‑washed, steepled, timeless.

His white suit was pristine. His hands were shaking. His heart was a riot.

Inside, the chapel glowed with soft light filtering through stained‑glass windows. Polished pews gleamed. Hydrangeas and white roses lined the aisle. The priest — old, kind, familiar — stood ready.

Molly, Lauren’s mother, walked down the aisle first, posture perfect, expression tight. She wasn’t Blaine’s biggest fan — not after he broke Lauren’s heart at eighteen — but she was trying. Her heels clicked sharply against the old wooden floor as she joined the bridesmaids.

The music changed.

Everyone turned.

And Blaine forgot how to breathe.

Lauren appeared on her father’s arm, blonde curls glowing in the sunlight pouring through the chapel doors. Her dress was long — a fitted mermaid silhouette that hugged her elegantly, flaring at the knee like a whisper of ocean foam. The fabric shimmered subtly, catching the light with every step. A long, two‑layer veil trailed behind her, soft and ethereal, floating like sea mist.

She looked like Brindleton Bay royalty. She looked like home. She looked like everything.

Brad’s expression was proud, emotional, protective. He squeezed her hand, whispered something that made her smile, then walked her slowly down the aisle.

Blaine’s throat tightened. His eyes burned.

Brad handed her to him with a quiet, fatherly hug.

The ceremony was beautiful — warm, intimate, coastal. The priest spoke of love, of choosing each other, of storms and harbors and building a life together. But Blaine barely heard a word. Lauren’s eyes were on him. His were on her. Everything else blurred.

And then — they were married.

The Reception

The reception took place at Rosebriar Haven, Brad’s estate overlooking the harbor, Lauren’s childhood home — a sprawling New England manor with white columns, and gardens overflowing with hydrangeas and climbing roses. The lawn rolled down toward the cliffs, below which sailboats bobbed lazily in the afternoon sun.

A tent had been set up on the lawn — cream canvas, chandeliers hanging from the beams, tables dressed in navy and ivory. The scent of lemon, rosemary, and fresh seafood drifted from the catering stations. Guests mingled under the soft glow of lanterns strung between the trees.

Lauren’s half‑siblings moved through the reception with the effortless confidence of well‑bred East Coast teens — eighteen, seventeen, and sixteen, dressed sharply, greeting guests with the poised manners drilled into every Cunningham child. Molly inspected every detail like a general preparing for battle. Brad greeted guests with the calm pride of a man who had waited years to see his daughter this happy.

Blaine looked around, wide‑eyed. “This is… fancy.”

Lauren smirked. “Welcome to East Coast old money.”

“Thought Camerons were rich and fancy. This makes our events look like children’s birthday parties at Chuck‑E‑Cheese.”

Lauren arched a brow. “What would you know about any of that? Don’t try telling me you ever set foot in a Chuck‑E‑Cheese.”

“I haven’t,” Blaine admitted, “but I’ve heard terrifying things. Still—Camerons are DSV royalty, but this looks like actual royalty. Scary realization? I think our families probably always spent the same amount of money… just the outcomes were very different.”

Lauren laughed softly. “I think you’re right. Camerons are loud and chaotic. Cunninghams are elegant and curated.” She brushed a hand down the lapel of his suit. “Don’t worry, husband. I’ll retrain you properly. You’ll be the fanciest actor Del Sol Valley has ever produced.”

He laughed. “Should I be scared?”

“Very.” she leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose which did something to him he had no words for.

They danced under chandeliers, the ocean breeze cooling the warm summer air.

Brad gave a speech that made Lauren cry.
Channing gave a speech that made everyone laugh.
Molly gave a speech that made Blaine sweat.

Dinner was perfect. Dessert was ridiculous. The night felt endless and warm and full.

At some point, Blaine needed to pee.

All restrooms were all occupied — a line of guests waiting, tapping their feet. Blaine cursed under his breath and slipped away, outside, toward the wooded edge of the property, where the hydrangeas grew wild and the trees offered privacy.

He sighed in relief when he finally had found a private spot, unzipped his pants and was relieving himself — then nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice sounded beside him.

“Aah, that moment of relief, best feeling, huh. Only sex is better.”

Blaine yelped, half turning to the speaker, recognizing him. “DAD?!”

“Hey, kid, watch it. Don’t piss on your old man. Nasty!” Blaine exclaimed, jumping out of range with vampire speed.

“What?!” Blaine stared at his namesake father as if unsure whether he was imagining him, just extra-realistic.

“Listen, junior, I love you, and I’m definitely not a prude, but how about you finish up real quick, shake off and put your little buddy away before we chat? I don’t wanna get filed in the same bucket as Michael Jackson and Catholic priests.”

Blaine finished, rinsed his hands in one of the many decorative outdoor water fountains — the kind rich people scatter across sprawling gardens for no practical reason, carved stone basins and tiered cascades trickling prettily under lantern light — then launched himself at his father.

“Dad!”

His father caught him in a tight, crushing hug — the kind Blaine hadn’t felt since he was a teenager. Emotion flickered across the older man’s face before he shoved it away with a crooked smile.

“Come on. Let’s save some of the cheese for your mother.”

“Mom’s here too?”

“Yeah. I parked her over there so she didn’t have to look at her baby boy’s wiener. Come.”

Scarlett stepped out of the shadows — elegant, glowing, emotional — eyes full of tears she didn’t bother to hide. Blaine didn’t care that he was a grown – and now married – man he launched himself at his mother who caught him and kissed his temples, cheeks, head, any place she could reach. She cupped Blaine’s face gently, thumbs brushing his cheeks.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered. “You look so handsome. And Lauren… she’s radiant. We’re so happy for you and proud of you.”

He hugged her, clinging like he was ten again, tears of joy streaming down his cheeks — and he didn’t even care. Not even when the older Blaine reached over with the long sleeve of his leather jacket and wiped his son’s face dry, muttering, “Keep it together, junior, or I’m using spit next time. Ah, fuck it … come here you … MUAH!” with that he started smooching all over his boy until Blaine just couldn’t take it anymore, begging his father to stop.

“Blaine…” Scarlett dragged out, grinning.

And both Blaine’s answered simultaneously, “Yeah?”

“Told ya not to name a kid after me, didn’t I tell you, Letty?”

“Yes, you sure did. This one’s on me. Not one, but two Blaines is not what this world needed.”

“Thanks Mom.”

It made all three of them laugh — a sharp, bright, familiar sound — and for a tiny, impossible moment, it felt exactly like it used to when Blaine was growing up and they were still home with him. Before the lies. Before the disappearance. Before the world thought they were dead.

Just them. Just family. Just love, loud and messy and Cameron‑coded.

“Come inside,” he begged. “Please. Just for a minute.”

His father shook his head.

“Kid, you know we can’t. We’re supposed to be dead. You want to give half the guests heart attacks walking in there with two zombies you dragged out of your daddy‑in‑law’s shrubbery? Your bride would spend her wedding night doing CPR on her own relatives instead of getting your heart rate up like a proper newlywed. And don’t forget—” he jabbed a finger into Blaine’s chest, “—you owe me grandbabies. Eight is the number to beat, son. I expect you to shatter my record. Go big or go home.”

Scarlett didn’t miss a beat.

She smacked Blaine Sr.’s arm lightly. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Blaine, stop terrorizing him. He just got married. Let him breathe before you start planning a small army with our DNA.”

Then she turned to her son, smoothing his hair back with both hands. “Sweetheart, ignore your father. He thinks reproduction is a competitive sport.”

Blaine Sr. scoffed. “It is a competitive sport. And I won. Cos I am the best! Why do you think everyone always goes ‘Fuck!’ when I show up? It’s like an honorary title. Like … king.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes so hard it was practically audible. “You didn’t win anything, King Blaine. You just forgot what birth control was.”

“I didn’t forget nothing, I just loved making and having mini-us’s with you. You should take that as a compliment, that I can’t contain myself around my beautiful wife and that after all those decades we have been married now. Show me any other man like that! And look at our handsome baby boy here and tell me you are not proud that sprung from our loins,” Blaine Sr. said proudly.

Scarlett gave him a look — the one that had shut him up since they were fifteen— then kissed her son’s cheeks again. “I am very proud. But Blaine, don’t listen to your father. You and Lauren take your time. And for the love of all things holy, do not try to beat eight. That was a lot for me, and I am immortal and don’t get tired easily, plus they were very spaced out.”

Blaine Sr. shrugged. “Yes, do listen to me! Aim high, kid. I mean, you inherited a fuckin’ fortune and you married into sick cash, you can afford two dozen kids and then some. Your mother and I loved having the house full with all those crazy Camerons. It got way to quiet when they are started flying the coop. Do better. Have them young, and close together, so by the time the last one left you get to breathe before they all start filling your house with grandbabies. That was the second most fun time, cos those little fuckers you can spoil rotten, get in all sorts of trouble and then send them home with their parents to deal with. Have a lot of kids so you will l have a lot of grandkids, I promise you son, your life will never be lonely or boring.”

Scarlett: “Do not listen to your father. Do not ‘aim high’. Aim sane.”

“Letty! Don’t say such nasty naughty things around our poor son. Fuck sanity, kid, sanity is about as real as a unicorn. What you want is fun, that is where it’s at. Kids start out as fun, in the sack, then you watch them born and grow, then have their own kids. That is hella fun! And making them is awesome too, you never know if you got the winning ticket till that wand comes out. Besides, the way there is awesome, we all know, nothing is more fun than fuc….” Scarlett slapped her hand over her husband’s mouth.

All three of them laughed — loud, messy, familiar — and for a moment it felt like the old days, when Blaine was growing up and they were still home with him, bickering and loving each other in the only way Camerons ever did: chaotically.

“Well, you better get back inside and ruin your girlish figure with more cake. We gotta get.” Blaine Sr. sighed, already half turning like he expected Scarlett to drag him by the ear.

“Already? Guys, no! You just got here. Okay, hang on — you stay here and I’ll get Lauren real quick. Bri’s here too… you can’t leave without saying hello—”

Scarlett touched his cheek, stopping him cold. “Baby, we’re here. We saw everything. That’s enough. My father would have a series of strokes if he knew we came at all. You heard him — he does not want us out here the risk someone could see us is too great but your Dad and I agreed we had to see you get married. We did the best we could. And we are so happy we got to see our handsome son.” Her voice softened, eyes shining. “God, Blaine… the world is your stage, baby. All yours for the taking. Sky’s the limit.”

“Your mom accidentally swallowed a stack of bumper stickers from the encouragement section,” Blaine laughed, dodging another swat from Scarlett — who tried not to laugh and failed miserably.

They talked — quietly, urgently — sharing updates, congratulations, love, encouragement. His mother kissed his forehead. His father squeezed his shoulder and mouthed “…make some babies!”

Then, as quickly as they’d appeared, they slipped back into the shadows.

Another secret to keep.

Blaine stood alone for a moment, breathing hard, heart full, eyes wet.

Then he returned to the party glowing.

A Week of Bliss

Honeymoon in Sulani was paradise. Just them. No commitments. No cameras. No expectations.

Their beach cabana stood on stilts above turquoise water, the kind that looked painted even in person. Palm trees swayed lazily. The air smelled like salt and hibiscus. Every morning, the tide whispered beneath the floorboards like a blessing.

They spent their days swimming, exploring tide pools, wandering through markets, eating fruit straight from the vendor’s hands. At night, they curled together on the veranda, listening to waves crash against the distant reef.

It was the happiest Blaine had ever been.

Their first night in Sulani was warm and quiet, lanterns flickering around the cabana. Lauren leaned against him on the veranda, her head on his shoulder, the ocean glowing beneath them.

He kissed her temple. She kissed his cheek. Romance deepened — slow, warm, tender — and then, naturally, inevitably, it shifted into something more.

Lauren paused, breath soft.

“Wait,” she murmured. “We need condoms. I told you — the antibiotics might’ve messed with my birth control. It’s important.”

Blaine nodded, reaching toward the drawer.

“Yeah, yeah… I know.”

But as he moved, his father’s voice echoed in his head:

“Eight is the number to beat, son.”

He hesitated. Just a heartbeat. Just long enough to make a choice.

He palmed the box, made a show of opening it — then quietly set it aside, out of her line of sight.

Under his breath, barely audible, he muttered:

“…this one’s for you, Dad.”

Lauren didn’t hear him. She kissed him again, soft and trusting.

The moment folded into warmth, closeness, tenderness — and then the scene faded gently into the hush of the Sulani night.

Sulani wrapped around them like a dream the entire honeymoon.

They swam in hidden coves. They napped in hammocks. They danced barefoot in the sand. They teased each other, kissed under palm trees, shared fruit and laughter and sun‑warmed skin.

And more than once — in the golden light of late afternoon, in the hush of evening, in the soft quiet of dawn — romance deepened again, naturally, inevitably, into something more.

Each time, Lauren reminded him gently:

“Condoms, babe. Antibiotics. Remember.”

Each time, Blaine nodded, reached for the drawer, pretended to comply — and didn’t.

Not out of recklessness. Not out of pressure. Not out of expectation.

But out of love. Out of hope. Out of the quiet, aching desire to build a future with her — a loud, messy, Cameron‑coded future full of laughter and chaos and tiny feet. And with siblings who were close in age and there for each other. Always.

Sulani kept his secrets.

On the morning before their last day, Blaine stood at the railing of their cabana, watching the sunrise paint the ocean gold. The light shimmered across the horizon like molten metal.

Lauren joined him, slipping her arms around his waist.

“Hey, lover…”

“Morning, wifey.”

She rested her cheek against his back. “So melancholic?”

“A little,” he murmured. “Just thinking about us. And our future. And that our kids will have their father in their lives so much they’ll wish I’d disappear sometimes. But I won’t. I’ll always be there. All the time. And their mother too. We will always be together and always be present for our kids. And they will be close in age and always together and there for each other too, we will make sure of it.”

“That sounds sweet but also borderline creepy and almost medical,” she teased. “Do I need to recommend a therapist?”

“You are my therapy.” He turned, brushing her hair back. “Just promise you’ll never leave me. Grow old with me.”

She lifted her hand, wiggling her rings. “I already promised you that. That is literally the whole idea here.”

He smiled — soft, unguarded. She kissed his cheek.

“Now let me get us breakfast. I think the blood content in your alcohol is startling, Blaine. You do not even sound like your arrogant self over that hangover.”

“I’m only drunk with love for you…”

“Yeah, that and the four cocktails you had last night.”

He reached for her, smooching her cheek, then picked her up and carried her off while she squealed.

Their last night in Sulani was quiet, warm, and full of laughter. They ate dinner on the beach, lanterns flickering around them. They danced barefoot in the sand. They talked about the future — houses, careers, holidays, traditions, everything they wanted to build.

And when they finally curled up together under the soft island night, Blaine held her close, thinking about his childhood. God it had been so much fun growing up with his parents. How much more fun would it have been if he had all his siblings there too, but much closer to his own age? That had to be the secret of life. His parents weren’t the sappy trad types, if they had that many kids it had to be heaven. Blaine had known what alone felt like, how being lonely in a crowd felt, he wanted none of that ever again. His Dad was right. If anyone could afford a ton of children and had the emotional bandwidth for them, it would be him and Lauren.

He kissed her forehead.

Lauren smiled against his chest.

Sulani breathed around them — waves, wind, moonlight — like the island itself was blessing whatever came next.

Later, they lay side by side, wrapped in the quiet glow of morning, the ocean murmuring outside like a blessing.

“Always and forever, babe,” he whispered.

“Always and forever,” she echoed.

Routines

The Cameron Mansion had settled into a new rhythm. Two toothbrushes in the holder. Two mugs on the counter. Two sets of footsteps echoing through the halls.

Married life suited them. It softened Blaine — brought order into his chaos. It sharpened Lauren — made her more outgoing, daring. It made the house feel like a home instead of a museum of Cameron performing arts history.

And the changes were everywhere.

Lauren’s medical journals and CEO briefing folders sat stacked neatly beside Blaine’s scripts, highlighters, and half‑scribbled character notes. Her sleek laptop lived on the kitchen island; his battered tablet lived on the sofa. Her white coat hung on the back of his office chair; his leather jacket hung on the banister because he still hadn’t learned to put it away properly.

The mansion adjusted to them like it had been waiting.

Lauren’s presence brought order — not sterile order, but intentionality. Fresh flowers in the foyer. A fruit bowl that actually stayed full. And the fruit didn’t just go bad and get thrown out — she made him eat clean and fresh. He pretended to be annoyed, then went on set and lectured everyone on micro and macro nutrients and protein.

A calendar on the fridge with color‑coded schedules for both of them, even though Blaine ignored his colors and relied on her reminders instead.

Blaine’s presence brought life — loud, chaotic, affectionate life. Music drifting through the halls at odd hours. Half‑finished monologues echoing from the shower. Random dance breaks in the kitchen. A habit of scooping Lauren up and carrying her down the hallway just because he could. Nuzzling her neck during conference calls at home, making her miss half of what was discussed — and she didn’t mind as much as she should.

Once, her father Brad was on the call and noticed she was distracted, so he sent her private messages: “Are you okay?”
“Fine, Dad.”
“Is Blaine home?”
“Yes, why?”
“…Never mind. I’ll brief you later.”

But the biggest shift — the one that made Lauren’s conservative, sweet, reserved, slightly stuffy upbringing crack open — was Blaine’s unbridled chaos.

He was a menace with that exotic sports car.

Every few days, Lauren would hear the engine roar to life, echoing through the driveway like a dragon waking up. She’d sigh, check the counter, and — sure enough — his phone would be sitting right there.

“Blaine!” she’d shout, already jogging after him in her sensible flats.

He’d tear down the driveway, blast past the main gate — then slam on the brakes just outside it, tires squealing, sunglasses glinting.

She’d catch up, breathless, holding his phone out like a hostage negotiation.

“I cannot believe you keep forgetting this,” she’d scold. “It usually grows out of your hand.”

He’d grin, leaning over the door. “Maybe I leave it on purpose so you’ll chase me.”

“Blaine.”

“Lauren.”

She’d try to glare. She’d fail. He’d wink. She’d roll her eyes and hand him the phone.

And every time, as he sped off, she’d find herself smiling — annoyed, exasperated, but undeniably lighter.

He teased her about being bossy. She told him she needed to be to keep him in line. They both secretly loved it.

And the mansion — once a shrine to Cameron legacy — now felt like a place where two people lived, loved, argued, laughed, worked, and built a future.

A home. Their home.

Off

But then something was off.

It started on a quiet morning.

Lauren stood at the stove, stirring oatmeal, hair in a loose bun, still in her scrubs from the night shift. The kitchen glowed with soft Del Sol Valley sunlight, warm against the marble counters. Blaine sat at the island, scrolling through scripts, half awake.

She taste‑tested a spoonful, nodded, smiled.

Then she turned to say something to Blaine — and froze.

Her face drained of color. She grabbed the counter. Her breath hitched.

“Lauren?”

She shook her head. “Just… turned too fast.”

“You… turned too fast,” Blaine repeated slowly. “Okay, listen, I know I’m not the doctor in this room, but I know BS when I hear it. And I heard it. Here, sit down. Actor’s orders.”

Lauren chuckled despite herself. “It’s just stress, Blaine. Establishing myself at work, the C‑Suites are still mostly a sausage‑fest everywhere… it’s gonna be rough for a while. And I moved across the country and married a guy every straight woman wants. You may not understand this, but it’s rough going anywhere with you and having rows of women openly hit on you with me right there next to you. I am trying to deal with it all.”

She brushed it off. He let her.

But he watched her leave the kitchen slower than usual.

Two days later, at dinner, something happened again.

They sat on the balcony overlooking Del Sol Valley, plates of pasta — ordered in from one of the top exclusive restaurants — steaming between them. The city glowed below, warm and alive. The air was soft, the evening breeze carrying the scent of jasmine from the garden.

Lauren twirled her fork, took one bite — and gagged.

She slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, then bolted for the railing.

“Lauren!”

She leaned over it, coughing, then retching once — nothing came out, but the sound made Blaine’s stomach drop.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Okay,” she said breathlessly. “That was dramatic. Sorry about that. Hope I didn’t put you off your appetite.”

“Nothing gets me hungrier than watching my wife vomiting down the balcony.”

“That was almost vomiting.”

“Okay, I didn’t microanalyze but sounded real enough to me! Dr. Cameron, you need to see… well… one like yourself! Go see a doctor, Lauren.”

“I told you, I am dealing with a lot of stress!”

She brushed past him, embarrassed.

He followed her inside, worried.

She refused to talk about it.

Saturday night, they attended a producer’s cocktail party — elbow‑rubbing for Blaine’s next film. Lauren wore a sleek navy dress, hair styled elegantly, makeup perfect. She looked like she belonged in every room they entered.

Halfway through the event, she excused herself to get fresh air.

He found her outside on the terrace, gripping the railing with both hands, breathing through her nose. The city lights shimmered below, casting silver reflections across the pool.

“Lauren?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re pale.”

“It’s hot.”

“It’s sixty‑two degrees. That’s practically arctic for DSV.”

“It’s humid.”

“It’s not humid at all or my hair would look like a fro. It doesn’t. Not humid. You are sick. Either that or menopausal. Or… well… pregnant.”

She glared at him. “I’m a doctor. I know what humidity feels like, and I know what symptoms say I’m sick. I am NOT sick. And I am NOT pregnant. Seriously, Blaine. Any more platitudes?”

He opened his mouth — then she gagged.

She turned, stumbled, and vomited over the railing.

Onto a producer’s Bentley.

Lauren froze. Blaine froze. The valet froze.

Blaine burst into echoing laughter. “Ha! That fucker told me I wasn’t right for a role I really wanted the other day. That’ll teach him. HAHAHAHA! I love you, Lauren!”

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I just puked on a Bentley.”

The valet nodded solemnly. “Yes, ma’am. You did.”

“I am SO sorry. Just hose it off. I’ll pay for the detailing. And you’ll get a gigantic tip if you don’t tell anyone what just happened.”

Blaine stepped forward. “Yeah, and bring my ride around. Lauren, as hilarious as this was, you’re sick. We are leaving.”

She wiped her mouth, mortified. “I’m fine. Something I ate was probably off. It all tasted funny.”

“We ate the same thing. It tasted fine. I am not puking on cars.”

“Your stomach is made of garbage and pizza. Mine is normal.”

“No, I think the reason is that you’re pregnant and I’m not.”

Her head snapped toward him.

“Blaine. HUSH! Keep your voice down. And no! Absolutely not. I am a doctor. I know my body. I am not pregnant.”

“You’re throwing up all the damn time now. You get randomly dizzy, you get pale. You are absolutely pregnant.”

“It’s a virus.”

“It’s my sperm. Combined with your eggs. Making us a mini me or mini you. That’s what.”

“I’m iron deficient.”

“You are going to be a mommy.”

“BLAINE! Stop it!”

“You puked on a Bentley at a party.”

“That is not a diagnostic criterion!”

“But you know what is? One of those pregnancy test wand thingies. And guess what we will be picking up before we get home?”

He crossed his arms. She crossed hers. They stared each other down.

Lauren broke first.

“I am too busy for babies,” she said quietly. “I just started at Dad’s medical centers. I have rotations. I have responsibilities. I can’t think about pregnancy right now.”

He softened. “Then think about yourself. Lauren, you’re pregnant. We are going to have another Cameron born, finally. One with a mom and a dad and eventually also with siblings who are always there.”

She looked away.

“Blaine — STOP! I’m not pregnant.”

“Why would that be so bad, Lauren? We are in our late twenties, not teens. This is the perfect time to start a family. We are married. We love each other. We are happy. We are both loaded. Why not now?”

“I am not ready, Blaine. Not yet.”

“Then when are you ready? When you are established and some busy medical center CEO who does life saving surgeries on the side? THEN you have time?”

“I am not a surgeon. I do consults and diagnoses.”

“And when are you diagnosed out enough to have a baby with me? And then a dozen more, ’cause I think we both want a big family?”

“Oh Blaine… we are still newlyweds. It is too soon.”

“Let’s just do a test.”

They didn’t. Lauren just wanted to go home and rest. So he let it go.

It happened on a Wednesday morning.

Lauren was rushing to get ready for work, hair half done, blouse half buttoned, muttering about being late. Blaine was making coffee.

She walked past him — and suddenly stopped.

Her face went blank. Her knees buckled. She dropped straight to the floor, onto hands and knees.

“LAUREN!”

He was beside her instantly, hands on her shoulders.

She blinked up at him, dazed. “I… don’t know what happened.”

“You fainted.”

“No, I—”

“You fainted.”

“I turned down too fast.”

“You collapsed. I saw the white in your eyes, babe.”

“I lowered myself.”

“You collapsed.”

“I—”

“You’re pregnant.”

She glared at him, furious and scared.

“Stop diagnosing me! I am the doctor!”

“Then act like one,” he said softly. “Because if a patient came into your ER with dizziness, nausea, vomiting, fainting, and fatigue — after recently marrying a very masculine mound of pure testosterone — you would run a pregnancy test.”

She opened her mouth — then closed it.

He held her face gently.

“I would think you are severely delusional, you testosterone mound.”

“Lauren… please. Let’s check. For me. For you. For us. I’ll cancel my rehearsal and come with you. We can go see Connor. You know he’s discreet.”

“No. Absolutely not! I am technically Connor’s boss now. That is super awkward for both of us. Not to mention that he is the older brother of my stepmother. I can’t have him look up my… no. NO!”

“Okay, then let’s start basic. I’ll throw you in my car and we’ll drive to some small town and raid the pregnancy test kit section, then go to a motel and… run lab work.”

“No Blaine. Not a motel room. If this is what you think it is, I want to find out in the comfort of our own home.”

“Fine by me, but we are doing this. And tonight!”

She didn’t argue this time.

She nodded.

Testing

Lauren sat on the edge of the bathtub, hands clasped, staring at the floor. Blaine paced the doorway like a caged animal.

The test lay on the counter. Blaine’s phone beeped — timer done.

Lauren inhaled shakily. “Okay. Let’s look.”

She reached for it.

Blaine grabbed her hand.

“Together.”

They lifted it.

Two lines.

Lauren froze. Blaine froze. The world froze.

Then Lauren whispered, voice trembling:

“Oh my God…”

Blaine’s breath hitched.

“Lauren…”

She looked up at him, eyes wide, terrified, overwhelmed.

“I’m pregnant.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you…”

He didn’t cheer. He didn’t shout. He didn’t laugh.
He felt excited and … guilty.

He pulled her into his arms.

She clung to him, shaking.

“Baby, look excited. I am excited. This is exciting. Not bad news, happy ones. This is great.” he told her, like a mantra.

“I’m scared,” she whispered, though amused by his exuberance. “This is too soon. Unplanned. I do not do unplanned.”

“You married the king of unplanning,” he admitted. “We got this, babe.”

“But how? We have been careful. It makes no sense. I never believed in pregnancies against all odds. There is usually some mistake to blame.”

“Umm … there is something to blame. Or rather … someone. I have to come clean about something.”

“Blaine?”

“Yeah, so …. remember our honeymoon. And all those condoms we went through … supposedly.”

“Oh Blaine, what did you do …”

“Yeah, I got emotionally carried away … and might have helped our family planning along a bit too much. I didn’t realize it would work and so fast. I mean, it was only one week of … bliss and … unprotected family planning roulette.”

“Blaine, you are killing me. Now what?”

“Now we will take a few deep breaths because I will be honest, this got real pretty fast and I might need a diaper change here. I mean, my idea felt solid but this right here feels a bit … ooof. But … we got this. This is good. We’ll crush this, babe. We made a love child.”

“Holy shit, Blaine. One of the things I love about you is that you are so unconventional. Ironically, that’s what now created a real shitstorm. This may not be really bad, but it’s also not great.”

“You still love me?”

“I don’t have a choice, you’re the father of my baby. Of course I love you, you idiot. But seriously Blaine, what were you thinking? A baby is not a one-man-decision. We both should have agreed.”

“Sorry, but not really sorry. You would have choked and we’d be fifty by the time you would finally feel ready. So now, we will … deal. And we will be damn good at it. We’re both from big families … you even helped with your nephews, so you are totally up to speed on baby care and I …. I just realized that I am one of eight but grew up like an only child and feel kinda fucked right now. I don’t think I ever even held a baby. Oh shit!”

Lauren couldn’t help laughing at his genuine panicking. This was classic Blaine. Act first, regret later.

“I love you, Blaine. You and your idiotic ways.”

“I love that you still love me. And I love you, babe. And I am a little bit sorry that I kinda decided for both of us. You’ll get to decide the next one. Well, in a reasonable timeframe, cos if there is one thing I do know for a fact it’s that too huge age gaps between siblings just create adults with their own lives and a younger only child. I hardly know my siblings at all and I don’t want this for our kids.”

They stayed like that for a long time — two newlyweds on a bathroom floor, holding each other while the world shifted beneath them.

Blaine pressed his forehead to hers.

“Always and forever, babe.”

Her voice cracked.

“Always and forever.”

They sat there — the tile cool beneath them, the soft hum of the mansion settling around them, the world outside continuing as if nothing had changed. But everything had.

Lauren finally exhaled, long and shaky, leaning back against the wall. Blaine stayed close, knees touching hers, hands still wrapped around her like he was afraid she’d vanish if he let go.

She wiped her face with her sleeve. “I need water.”

He shot up so fast he nearly tripped over the bathmat. “Yes. Water. Hydration. Electrolytes. Vitamins. A whole fruit basket. I’ll get everything.”

“Blaine,” she said gently, “just water. I’ll start on the prenatal vitamins tomorrow.”

He froze mid‑stride, nodded, and sprinted out anyway.

Lauren let her head fall back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. The bathroom light hummed softly. Her pulse thudded in her ears. She felt… everything. Fear. Joy. Panic. Wonder. A strange, dizzying warmth.

Pregnant.

She was pregnant.

“Damn you Blaine … I should have known to check your homework and not trust you blindly. You and your crazy, half-ripe ideas.”

She pressed a hand to her stomach — not because she expected anything to be different, but because she needed to feel something solid. Her palm trembled.

Blaine returned with a glass of water, a bottle of sparkling water, a sports drink, and — inexplicably — a banana.

“I didn’t know what kind you wanted,” he said breathlessly.

She stared at the pile in his arms. “Why the banana?”

“Potassium,” he said, as if it were obvious. “I Googled.”

She took the glass of water. “Thank you.”

He sat beside her again, knees bumping hers. He didn’t speak. He didn’t fidget. He just watched her — not with panic now, but with something quieter. Something reverent.

Lauren sipped the water slowly.

“I’m still scared,” she whispered.

“I know,” Blaine said. “Me too.”

She looked at him. Really looked at him. His eyes were red, his hair a mess, his shirt wrinkled from pacing and kneeling and panicking. He looked like a man who had just been handed the universe and wasn’t sure how to hold it.

But he also looked steady.

Grounded.

Excited.

And he looked like forever. Her forever.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

He swallowed. “We… breathe. And then we call your doctor. And then we figure out how to tell your parents. Hey, what are those protective suits called they wear when training attack dogs? I should rent one before we tell your mother. She hates me on a good day …”

Lauren groaned. “My mom doesn’t hate you, but we literally just got married and she is going to explode. We will get a weekend filling lecture of ‘have you not learned anything from my mistakes’, even though we didn’t get married because of the baby like she and my dad did, at twenty. We are in our late twenties. But yeah, she is going to freak out and then blame my Dad.”

“Yup. And if I do survive my mother-in-law, we will go and watch your dad faint.”

“My dad doesn’t faint. He’s a top-level surgeon!”

“But are his patients usually his daughter expecting his grandbaby by a man like me? Oh yeah, ole Brad is so gonna go weak on us. And your mother will tear me a new bunghole. That woman scares me.”

“Fair point. Are you capable of keeping this to yourself until the safe mark? About twelve weeks?”

“Probably not, but I will try.”

Lauren laughed — a small, fragile sound, but real.

Blaine reached for her hand. “Hey.”

She looked at him.

“We’re going to be okay,” he said softly. “We’re Camerons and Cunninghams. Chaos is literally our brand.”

She squeezed his hand. “Cunninghams do not do chaos. I don’t want chaos. I want you, come to find chaos is just part of the package.”

“Funny thing being: you are a Cameron now and the one you are growing is too,” he reminded her gently. “Chaos was in the vows.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile stayed.

He stood and offered her his hand. “Come on. Let’s get you off the bathroom floor. You’re pregnant, not a Roomba.”

She took his hand and let him pull her up. Her legs wobbled, but he steadied her instantly.

They walked out of the bathroom together, fingers intertwined, moving slowly down the hallway toward the bedroom — not because she was weak, but because the world felt different now. Softer. Heavier. Brighter. Terrifying.

Beautiful.

Halfway down the hall, Lauren stopped.

Blaine turned. “What’s wrong?”

She looked at him, eyes wide again — but this time, not with fear.

With awe.

“We’re going to have a baby,” she whispered.

Blaine’s breath caught.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “We are.”

And for the first time since the test, she let herself smile — fully, openly, without hesitation.

Blaine cupped her face, kissed her forehead, and whispered again:

“Always and forever.”

Lauren leaned into him.

“Always and forever.”

The First Sonogram

By the time the first sonogram appointment arrived, Lauren was barely functioning. The first trimester of her pregnancy had been rough with a few calm periods. A lot of nausea followed by dizzy spells, insomnia then permanent exhaustion. She had been trying out every medication on the market to help, but everything only ever brought a little relief. Now, heading into the second trimester things finally started to calm down.

She lay back on the exam table, cold gel spread across her stomach, Blaine’s hand wrapped around hers like he was afraid she might slip away if he let go.

The screen flickered. A heartbeat appeared — steady, strong, impossibly small.

Lauren’s breath caught. Blaine’s eyes flooded instantly.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

It was simply the two of them, exhausted and terrified and overwhelmed, staring at the proof that all the sickness and misery meant something.

When the appointment ended, they just held each other in the parking lot, Lauren leaning into Blaine’s chest while he pressed his lips to her hair and whispered that he loved her, that she was doing so well, that he was proud of her.
For a moment, the world was quiet. Just them. Just the tiny heartbeat they had heard minutes ago. Just the future settling into place around them like warm sunlight.

Then someone gasped.

“Oh my God… is that Blaine Cameron?!”

Lauren stiffened.

Blaine’s eyes snapped open. “No. No. Come on now! Not now. Not this shit. Not TODAY.”

But it was too late.
Three fans became five. Five became ten.
Ten became a swarm.
Phones came out.
Voices rose.
Someone screamed his name like they were at a concert.
Someone else tried to hug him.
Someone asked if Lauren was his sister.
Someone asked if she was his assistant.

Lauren blinked. “I’m his wife!”
That only made it worse.

A girl shrieked. “OH MY GOD YOU’RE LAUREN CAMERON?! Are your curls real? What’s it like to be married to Blaine?! Is he always so sexy at home too?!”

Another shoved forward. “Is it true you’re in an open relationship?!”

Blaine snapped. “WTF?! An open relationship, are you kidding me right now! Get the fuck outta here! BACK UP! Personal space! HUMAN DECENCY! Ever heard of it?!”

Lauren tugged his sleeve. “Blaine—”

“No! Absolutely not! We were having a moment here — blind man with a cane could see that — and you people are acting like we’re at a meet‑and‑greet outside a Cheesecake Factory while wondering which of you I might like to fuck real quick?! Dafuq’s wrong with you?! Oh, and the answer is: NONE of you!”

Someone tried to pull on Lauren’s arm.

Blaine lost it.

He grabbed the hand, yanked it off her, and shoved the person back. “NO TOUCHING MY WIFE! LISTEN HERE, FUCKERS! I TOUCH MY WIFE AND THAT’S IT! ANY OF YOU COME NEAR HER LIKE THAT AGAIN AND BODY PARTS ARE GONNA START FLYING! BACK UP! BACK UP! BACK UP!”

He practically threw himself between her and the crowd, shielding her like a linebacker, then grabbed her hand and marched her toward the car.

“Blaine—”

“Nope. We’re leaving. I’m done. I’m DONE. Anyone in my way will get flattened by 600+ angry Italian horses!”

He opened the passenger door, practically lifted her inside, slammed it shut, then rounded the hood like a man possessed.

Lauren watched him, half horrified, half endeared.

He got in, slammed his door, and hammered his finger on the ignition, causing the car to howl up angrily.

“Blaine—”

He revved the engine.

“Blaine—”

He peeled out of the parking lot so fast the tires screeched, leaving a cloud of dust and confused fans behind.

Lauren braced a hand on the dashboard. “BLAINE CAMERON! You cannot drive like a maniac just because people recognized you! You chose an acting career!”

“No, I wanted music. Acting was the career that wanted me.”

“Blaine .. either way, you would have fans. You want fans. They are who make you successful.”

“I never complained a beep about them going to see my movies. Or my interviews. Talking BS while fondling my wife, asking if she’s my sister, after they had to have seen me kiss you, that is fucking ridiculous.”

“Blaine … you chose being in the public eye. This is part of it.”

“They SWARMED you!”

“No, they swarmed YOU, Blaine, like they always do! How are you not used to this?”

“They swarmed US! And one of them tried to manhandle you! And another asked if you were my sister! My SISTER, Lauren! Do I look like I am into incest?! Besides, all my sisters have been brunette, because both our parents are. I mean were. You are very clearly blonde!”

“Hair could be dyed and that doesn’t justify vehicular homicide!”

“I didn’t hit anyone! Yet.”

“You almost hit a mailbox!”

“It was in the way!”

“It was stationary in a place where mailboxes usually are!”

“I don’t give a damn!”

“But I do! You put this baby in me without even asking my consent — I am not raising it alone while you hang out in Club Fed for this dumbassery!”

He gripped the wheel, jaw tight, eyes blazing.

Lauren sighed, rubbing her forehead. “You need to calm down.”

“I am calm.”

“You are absolutely not calm.”

“I am calm adjacent.”

She stared at him.

He exhaled sharply, shoulders dropping. “I just… I didn’t like them crowding you. Not today. Not after… everything. We both need peace now, not human ants crawling all over us.”

Her expression softened.

She reached over, took his hand.
He squeezed back, fierce and protective and overwhelmed.

The car sped down the highway, the city stretching out before them, the future stretching even farther.
And somewhere between the hospital and home, Lauren whispered, barely audible:
“We’re really having a baby.”

Blaine’s grip tightened.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “We are. No denying it anymore now. We got a photo to proof it. Shit’s getting real. We need to start furnishing a nursery and pack the hospital bag and all that.”

“Blaine, I am just about twelve weeks along. I do not need a hospital bag yet. And let’s wait with the nursery until we got the invites out for the babyshower and gender reveal, so we know whom we are furnishing for.”

Blaine smirked, then turned his head to her.

“It’s a boy. I just know it.”

“Blaine! Look at the road!” she pointed.

He shrugged. “Still a boy.”

“I don’t care, as long as its healthy.”

“Nursery is gonna be green anyway. The Cameron family color.”

“You don’t have a family color. You are not old nobility.”

“We absolutely have a family color. Ask Briar Rose. It’s green. Like my eyes. Same eyes our baby will have.”

“Okay, you get green eyes and I will get the Cunningham curls.”

“No curls. It’s a boy. Boys always look like wanna-be cherubs with curls, especially when they are blonde. And dark curls have to be loose or they look like he’s trying to have a fro.”

“Blaine! And my Dad looks nice with his curls. So did Graham. And Nathaniel too.”

“They look like real man’s men to you? Seriously? Is that what you are telling me, woman?”

“Blaine …”

“He can be blonde, but no curls. And green eyes.”

“Watch it be a girl now …”

“Nope. It’s a boy. I just know. My Blainey senses say so.”

“My Lauren senses say it’s a girl.”

“Well, they are wrong. Unless it’s twins. That could be.”

“Blaine, we just looked at the sonogram, it’s one baby, not twins! I am a doctor, I saw it. I just couldn’t see what gender. So, one baby, let’s keep it that way. Have mercy on me! Getting them in is the easy part. Getting them out is hard. One is bad enough, don’t make me do two at once, please.”

“No, once you are already in labor they just pop out, one after another. I think that’s the way to go. Four kids minimum. So, two and two. Actually, might as well go for the half dozen then, right? Only three pregnancies. Ask Briar Rose how that goes. She is a twin and all through Hailey’s pregnancy they saw one baby until Hailey shot out two in the delivery room. Watch it, we’re doing the same. It’s twins. Maybe trips.”

He grinned at her and she closed her eyes.

“Watch the road or I will puke in your lap. It is one baby, confirmed. Good grief.”