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The scent of artificial smoke and expensive espresso hung heavy in the air of the soundstage. It was the final week of shooting for The Iron Wings, a high-budget psychological thriller starring the industry’s most beloved power couple.
Hange Zoe, usually the life of any set she stepped on, was currently leaned against a prop crate, staring intensely at a craft services table. To anyone else, she looked like she was getting into character. In reality, she was trying to figure out if the smell of the tuna sandwiches was actually lethal or if it was just her heightened senses.
"You're staring again," a cool, low voice vibrated near her ear.
Hange didn't have to look up to know it was Levi. Even in full costume—dark tactical gear that made him look unfairly sharp—he carried an aura of grounded calm that usually centered her. Today, it made her heart do a nervous little flip.
"Just thinking about the blocking for the final scene," Hange lied, flashing him a grin that was maybe two degrees too wide. "It’s a lot of running, isn't it?"
Levi narrowed his eyes. He had spent ten years acting alongside her and five years married to her. He knew the difference between her 'manic scientist' grin and her 'I’m hiding something' grin. "It’s a sprint down a hallway and a controlled fall. You’ve done worse in your sleep. Are you sure you’re okay? You skipped breakfast."
"Just pre-wrap jitters, Shorty!" she chirped, using his old nickname to distract him. She reached out to pat his cheek, but as she moved, a sudden wave of nausea rolled through her. She froze, her hand hovering in mid-air for a fraction of a second before she turned it into a dramatic stretch.
"Places, everyone!" the director shouted.
The scene was simple: Hange’s character had to bolt through a crumbling corridor, dodge a collapsing beam, and be caught by Levi’s character before they both tumbled onto a safety mat.
Usually, Hange was a daredevil. She’d performed her own stunts since her indie film days. But as the stunt coordinator walked her through the "controlled fall," her hand instinctively drifted toward her stomach.
Six weeks. That’s what the tiny digital screen had told her three days ago. Just six weeks, but it felt like she was carrying a state secret that could topple a government.
"Hange, you’re looking a bit stiff," the coordinator noted. "When Levi grabs you, you need to go limp so the momentum carries you both onto the mat. If you tense up, you’re going to bruise a rib."
"Got it! Limp as a noodle. A very dramatic, cinematic noodle," Hange joked, but her throat felt tight.
"Action!"
Hange took off. The adrenaline helped mask the fatigue. She sprinted, the heavy boots thudding against the plywood floor. The "beam" fell—a lightweight foam prop—and she pivoted. She saw Levi at the end of the hall, his arms reaching out.
As she hit the mark, she felt his strong grip wrap around her waist. It was a familiar, safe sensation, but as they began the fall toward the mat, Hange panicked. Instead of letting her weight fall against him, she twisted her body mid-air, landing awkwardly on her side and shoulder to ensure her stomach didn't take any of the impact.
The "thump" of the mat was followed by a sharp silence.
"Cut! Cut!"
Levi was off her in a second, hovering over her with a look of pure, unadulterated worry. "Hange? Your shoulder—you landed completely wrong. What the hell was that?"
Hange stayed down for a moment, catching her breath. Her shoulder stung, but her core was safe. She looked up to see the entire crew—and especially Levi—looking at her like she’d lost her mind.
"I just... I tripped over my own feet! Can you believe it?" she laughed, though it sounded a bit breathless. "The great Hange Zoe, defeated by a flat surface. I think I just need some water. And maybe to stay away from the tuna sandwiches."
Levi didn't laugh. He reached down, pulling her up with a gentleness that didn't match his stern expression. He kept his hand on her arm, his thumb rubbing small circles into her skin—a silent interrogation.
By the time the director yelled "That’s a wrap on The Iron Wings!" five hours later, the set erupted in cheers. Champagne bottles were de-corked, and the crew began to mingle.
Nanaba approached Hange with two overflowing flutes of vintage Moët. "To the best leading lady in the business! Drink up, Hange, you earned it after that wipeout today."
Hange looked at the bubbles. Usually, she’d be the first to toast.
"Oh, Nanaba, I’d love to," Hange said, leaning in close as if sharing a juicy piece of onset gossip. "But I’m on these total garbage antibiotics for a sinus infection. If I mix it with alcohol, I’ll probably hallucinate that Erwin is a giant titan or something."
Nanaba laughed, pulling the glass back. "Fair enough! We can't have that. I'll get you a ginger ale."
Hange watched her go, exhaling a sigh of relief. She felt a presence behind her. Levi was standing there, holding a plain, opaque ceramic mug he’d hijacked from the trailer.
"Here," he said, handing it to her. "It’s peppermint tea. It’s better for your 'sinus infection' than ginger ale."
Hange took it, her fingers brushing his. He was looking at her with an intensity that made her wonder if he already knew. But then he just leaned in and kissed her forehead.
"One more week of press, and then we move into the new house," he whispered. "Just hold on until then, okay?"
"I’m holding on, Levi," she whispered back into the rim of her mug. "You have no idea."
The new house was a sprawling, mid-century modern masterpiece tucked away in the hills, far from the prying telescopic lenses of the paparazzi. It was their sanctuary, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a private valley. But for the last forty-eight hours, it had been a battlefield of cardboard boxes and bubble wrap.
Hange stood in the center of what would eventually be their sun-drenched living room, clutching a medium-sized box to her chest like it contained the crown jewels.
"Hange, for the third time, put that down before you strain your back," Levi’s voice drifted from the hallway. He appeared a moment later, looking suspiciously pristine despite having spent the morning hauling crates of books. He held a clipboard—his ultimate weapon of mass organization. "What’s even in that one? It’s not labeled."
Hange gave him a wide, frantic smile. "This? Oh, you know. Science... stuff. Old research papers. Boring tax documents from 2022. You’d hate it. Very dusty. Very disorganized."
Levi stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. He hated disorganized things. "If it’s dusty, give it here. I’ll wipe it down and put it in the office storage."
"No!" Hange yelped, pivoting on her heel. "I mean—no, no. I have a very specific system for my taxes, Levi. If you touch them, the IRS will probably come for us. You wouldn't want to deal with an audit, would you? The paperwork alone would kill you."
Levi paused, clearly weighing his desire for cleanliness against his hatred for government bureaucracy. "Fine. Put it in the corner. But if I find a single silverfish in this house because of your 'system,' I’m burning the box."
Hange scurried away, tucking the box—which actually contained three positive pregnancy tests, a pair of tiny socks, and her first ultrasound photo—behind a stack of heavy encyclopedias in the back of the walk-in closet.
By noon, the "Vets" arrived to "help," though in reality, they were mostly there to christen the new kitchen.
Erwin Smith arrived first, carrying a massive housewarming plant that looked suspiciously like it required a professional gardener. Behind him were Miche and Nanaba, the latter lugging a crate of high-end wine.
"Wow," Nanaba whistled, looking around the foyer. "You two finally did it. A house that doesn't look like an actor's trailer."
"Levi did most of the choosing," Hange said, leaning against the kitchen island. She felt a familiar wave of lightheadedness. The smell of the new paint was starting to get to her. "I just made sure there was enough room for my telescopes."
Miche walked over, his nose twitching slightly. He was a man of few words, but his sense of smell was legendary in the industry—he could supposedly tell what brand of cigarettes a director smoked from three trailers away. He leaned down, ostensibly to inspect the countertop, but his head tilted toward Hange.
"New perfume?" Miche asked gruffly.
Hange’s heart skipped. "Uh, yeah! A gift from a fan. 'Eau de... New House.' Do you like it?"
Miche didn't answer. He just gave her a long, searching look before glancing at Levi, who was busy scolding Erwin for putting the plant on the hardwood without a saucer.
As the afternoon wore on, the "help" turned into a full-blown party. While Levi and Erwin debated the merits of the security system, Hange found herself cornered in the kitchen by Nanaba.
"So," Nanaba said, popping the cork on a bottle of Pinot Grigio. "Now that the movie is done and the house is settled... what’s next? A vacation? I heard you were looking at a script for a Broadway revival."
Hange reached for a cracker, trying to settle her stomach. "I don't know. I think I might take a break. Maybe a long one."
Nanaba paused, her hand frozen over a wine glass. "A break? Hange Zoe, the woman who once filmed three movies in a single year because she 'got bored,' is taking a break?"
"I'm just tired, Nan!" Hange laughed, but it felt thin.
From across the room, Levi’s gaze snapped to her. He was halfway through a conversation with Erwin, but his "Hange-radar" was clearly pinging. He walked over, his hand naturally finding the small of her back. It was a grounding touch, but it also made Hange feel incredibly guilty. She hated keeping things from him, especially something this life-changing.
"She’s been 'tired' for two weeks," Levi said, his voice low and laced with a hint of suspicion. "I’m thinking of calling the doctor. She might have picked up a bug on set."
"I'm fine, Levi! Really," Hange insisted, grabbing a dish towel to give her hands something to do. "I’m just... overwhelmed by how much stuff we own. Do we really need four blenders?"
"We have two blenders, Hange. Don't exaggerate," Levi corrected, but he didn't pull his hand away. He lingered there, his thumb tracing a slow, thoughtful line against her spine.
Hange, who was busy pretending to enjoy a glass of sparkling cider that looked like champagne, suddenly realized where she had hidden the "Tax Box."
The walk-in closet. Where Levi was currently 'organizing.'
She nearly tripped over a rug in her haste to get up the stairs. She burst into the bedroom just as Levi was reaching for the stack of encyclopedias.
"Wait!" she gasped.
Levi froze, his hand inches from the box. He turned, looking at her with a mix of confusion and genuine concern. "Hange, what is wrong with you today? You’re acting like there’s a dead body in this closet."
"I... I just remembered!" Hange panted, leaning against the doorframe. "That box. It’s not just taxes. It’s... a surprise! For the housewarming! If you look at it now, it’ll ruin everything."
Levi stared at the box, then back at his wife. He saw the slight tremor in her hands and the way she was biting her lip. He slowly lowered his arm, his expression softening into something unreadable.
"A surprise," he repeated quietly.
"Yes. A very big, very... delicate surprise."
Levi walked over to her, stopping just inches away. He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His eyes searched hers, and for a second, Hange was sure she was going to spill it right then and there.
"Fine," Levi whispered. "I won't touch the box. But Hange... whatever this 'surprise' is, I hope it’s something you’re ready for."
He kissed her cheek—a lingering, sweet gesture—and walked past her out of the room. Hange leaned her head against the cool wood of the closet door, her hand finally resting over her stomach.
"He has no idea," she whispered to the quiet room. "But he’s going to be so good at this."
The house finally fell silent. The last of the moving trucks had rumbled down the driveway hours ago, and the veterans—Erwin, Miche, and Nanaba—had retreated to their respective homes, leaving the scent of expensive wine and woodsmoke in their wake.
Levi was in the kitchen, methodically wiping down a countertop that was already spotless. It was his way of decompressing. Hange watched him from the doorway, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She was wearing one of his oversized grey hoodies, the sleeves swallowed her hands, and for the first time in her life, the most talkative woman in Hollywood was speechless.
"You’re hovering again," Levi said without looking up. He tossed the microfiber cloth aside and turned to face her. The moonlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows caught the sharp line of his jaw. "The 'surprise' in the closet. Is it time?"
Hange swallowed hard. "Actually... yeah. It is."
She disappeared into the bedroom, her footsteps muffled by the new plush carpet. She reached behind the encyclopedias, her fingers trembling as she pulled out the plain, unlabeled box. She took a deep breath, centered herself, and walked back into the living room.
Levi was sitting on the edge of their new leather sofa, his hands resting on his knees. He looked every bit the stoic leading man, but Hange could see the slight tension in his shoulders. He knew this wasn't just a housewarming gift.
"Here," Hange whispered, holding the box out.
Levi took it. It was light—too light for "tax documents." He looked up at her once, his grey eyes searching hers for a clue, before he slowly pulled the ribbon.
The lid came off with a soft skritch.
At first, Levi didn't move. He stared into the box like he was looking at a script written in a language he didn't recognize.
On top was a tiny, impossibly small pair of black leather booties—miniature versions of the ones he wore on set. Tucked inside one of the boots was a folded piece of thermal paper.
Levi reached in, his fingers looking massive and clumsy against the delicate leather. He pulled out the paper. It was grainy, black and white, showing a tiny, flickering bean-shaped smudge in the center of a dark circle.
Underneath it all was a white onesie, folded neatly, with bold black letters that read:
"Hi, Dad! Sorry I missed the wrap party. I was busy growing a heart."
The silence in the room was absolute. Hange felt like she was suspended in mid-air, waiting for the "controlled fall" they had practiced on set.
Levi’s hand started to shake—just a fraction, but it was enough to make the ultrasound photo crinkle. He didn't look up. He traced the outline of the tiny "bean" with his thumb, his breathing hitching in a way that would have won him an Oscar if he were on camera. But this wasn't a performance.
"Six weeks?" he choked out, his voice a raw, jagged whisper.
"Seven now," Hange corrected softly, her voice thick with unshed tears. "That’s why I couldn't do the stunt right. That’s why the tuna sandwiches were the enemy. I wanted to tell you, Levi, but I wanted it to be here. In our home."
Levi finally looked up. The "strong, silent" actor was gone. His eyes were glassy, and a single tear escaped, tracking a path down his cheek. He stood up abruptly, the box sliding onto the sofa, and in two strides, he had her in his arms.
He didn't just hug her; he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his hands splayed wide across her back as if trying to shield her from the entire world.
"You idiot," he breathed into her skin, his voice muffled and trembling. "You absolute, brilliant, reckless idiot."
"Is that a good 'idiot'?" Hange asked, laughing through a sob as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
Levi pulled back just enough to cupped her face in both hands. He kissed her—not a movie kiss, but something deep, desperate, and full of a thousand unspoken promises.
"It’s the best thing you’ve ever done," he whispered, his forehead resting against hers. "But if you ever hide something like this from me again, I’m retiring and locking you in this house."
Hange laughed, leaning into his touch. "I think I’m okay with that. For the next eight months, at least."
They stayed like that for a long time, tangled together on the sofa in the middle of their unfinished living room. Levi eventually moved his hand down, resting it flat against her stomach. There was no bump yet, nothing but the soft fabric of the hoodie, but he held the spot with a reverence that made Hange’s breath hitch.
"We keep this to ourselves for a while," Levi said, his protective instincts already kicking into high gear. "No agents. No tabloids. Just us. And the Vets."
"About the Vets..." Hange smirked, wiping her eyes. "We have the housewarming party next week. How long do you think we can last before Miche smells the hormones or I refuse Nanaba’s wine?"
Levi gave a small, rare smirk—the one he only saved for her. "Ten minutes. Max."
"Challenge accepted," Hange grinned.
The "official" housewarming party was less of a Hollywood gala and more of a quiet gathering of the old guard. Erwin, Miche, and Nanaba were the only ones invited—the people who had seen Levi and Hange through every failed take, every grueling press tour, and their secret courthouse wedding five years prior.
The new patio was illuminated by soft string lights, casting a golden glow over the sleek outdoor furniture. Levi was at the grill, looking intensely focused on searing asparagus as if it were a high-stakes dramatic monologue. Hange, meanwhile, was buzzing around the patio, rearranging coasters and laughing just a little too loudly at Erwin’s stories.
"You're vibrating, Hange," Erwin noted, leaning back with a glass of scotch. "Is the move finally getting to you, or is there another project you haven't told us about?"
"Just the coffee!" Hange lied smoothly, though she hadn't touched caffeine in ten days. "You know how I get when I have a new kitchen to play with. I’m practically radioactive with energy."
Miche was sitting on the edge of the stone wall, his eyes tracking Hange as she moved. He didn't say much, but his nose was working overtime.
As Hange passed him to grab a tray of appetizers, Miche leaned in slightly. His brow furrowed. The "Eau de New House" perfume she had claimed to wear last week was gone. In its place was something metallic, sweet, and distinctly... different.
"Hange," Miche said, his voice a low rumble.
"Yes, Miche? Want more dip? It’s spinach-artichoke, very healthy, very green!"
"You changed your soap," he stated. It wasn't a question.
Hange froze for a millisecond. "Oh! Yes. Unscented. For the... environmental impact. Save the bees, Miche! Save the bees."
She scurried away before he could ask follow-up questions, nearly colliding with Nanaba, who was holding a dusty, dark green bottle with a flourish.
"Alright, everyone, gather 'round!" Nanaba announced, her eyes sparkling. "I’ve been saving this for a special occasion. This is a 2012 Vintage. It’s the same year we all did that terrible action flick in the desert—the one where Hange accidentally set the catering tent on fire."
Erwin chuckled. "A vintage for a vintage disaster. Perfect."
Levi walked over from the grill, wiping his hands on a black towel. He caught Hange’s eye. A silent conversation passed between them—a split second of 'Here we go' and 'Don't break character.'
Nanaba began pouring. The deep red liquid swirled into the crystal glasses. She handed one to Erwin, one to Miche, and then held one out to Hange.
"To the new house," Nanaba toasted, raising her own glass. "And to the couple who finally grew up and bought a place with more than one bedroom."
The group raised their glasses. Hange took hers, the cool stem feeling like a ticking time bomb in her hand. She brought the glass to her lips, letting the aroma hit her—and immediately, her stomach did a somersault.
She didn't take a sip. She just let the rim touch her skin, then lowered it.
"Well?" Nanaba asked, already halfway through her own glass. "It’s incredible, right? Notes of blackberry and... wait. Hange, you didn't drink."
The patio went silent. In their circle, Hange Zoe refusing a glass of high-end vintage was like the sun refusing to rise. It was a fundamental law of physics being broken.
"I’m just... savoring the bouquet!" Hange chirped, her voice an octave higher than usual. "It’s so complex. I don't want to rush the experience."
"Hange," Nanaba said, her eyes narrowing. She stepped closer, looking at the full glass. "You love this vineyard. You once tried to buy a crate of this during the wrap party in Italy."
"I'm on a... juice cleanse!" Hange shouted. It was a terrible lie. Even Erwin looked skeptical. "Very trendy. Very Hollywood. Clears the chakras."
Levi stepped in, moving to stand right behind her. He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. "She's not on a cleanse, Nanaba. Stop interrogating her."
"Then why isn't she drinking?" Nanaba asked, a slow, predatory grin spreading across her face as the gears began to turn. She looked at Hange’s flat stomach, then at Levi’s protective stance, then back at Hange’s glowing—if slightly pale—face. "Wait. No. Shut up. Are you..."
Hange looked at Levi. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. The "actor" mask finally dropped. Hange’s face broke into the widest, most genuine smile she’d worn all year.
"I’m on a nine-month detox," Hange whispered, her eyes shimmering.
The silence that followed was broken by Nanaba dropping her cloth napkin. "I KNEW IT! I knew the 'sinus infection' on set was a lie! Levi, you're a terrible actor, you've been hovering over her like a mother hen for three weeks!"
Erwin stood up, his face radiating a warmth that usually only appeared when he was giving a graduation speech. "Congratulations. Truly. A new house and a new life."
Miche just nodded, a small smirk touching his lips. "The scent," he muttered to himself. "Hormones. I knew it."
"You guys have to keep this a secret," Levi said, his voice stern but his eyes bright. "The media finds out when we say they find out. If a single 'unnamed source' leaks this to Variety or TMZ, I will personally find out who it was."
"Our lips are sealed," Erwin promised, raising his glass again. "To the newest member of the cast. May they have Hange’s spirit and... hopefully, Levi’s sense of cleanliness."
"Hey!" Hange laughed, finally setting the wine glass down for good and reaching for a glass of water. "I can be clean! I have a whole box of 'tax documents' to prove it."
The world outside the private wing of the hospital was oblivious. In the high-stakes world of Hollywood, a month of silence from a power couple usually sparked rumors of a "creative hiatus" or a secret tropical getaway. Nobody suspected that the most famous duo in the industry was currently hunkered down in a room filled with the soft hum of monitors and the scent of sterile linens and new life.
Hange lay in the center of the bed, her usual manic energy replaced by a profound, exhausted peace. Her hair was a wild nest of brown tangles, and her skin was glowing—not from studio lights, but from the sheer effort of the last twelve hours.
In her arms, wrapped tightly in a hospital blanket patterned with tiny blue and green stars, was the "secret project" they had been developing for nine months.
"He has your nose," Hange whispered, her voice raspy. "And your scowl. Look at that tiny, judgmental forehead, Levi. He’s already disappointed in the room service."
Levi was sitting on the edge of the bed, closer than he had ever been to anyone in his life. He wasn't wearing his usual sharp suits or tactical gear; he was in a simple black t-shirt, his sleeves pushed up to reveal arms that were currently trembling as he reached out to touch a microscopic hand.
"He’s not scowling," Levi murmured, his voice thick with a vulnerability he never allowed on screen. "He’s just... observing. He’s discerning."
Levi took the tiny hand, his thumb nearly covering the infant’s entire palm. The baby’s fingers instinctively curled around his, a grip so strong it made Levi’s breath hitch.
"He's perfect, Hange," he whispered. "You did... you did so good."
An hour later, the "Vets" were allowed in. They entered like a tactical unit—Erwin carrying a massive bouquet of sunflowers, Nanaba with a camera bag, and Miche trailing behind, his nose twitching as he took in the new, milky scent of the room.
"The perimeter is secure," Erwin joked softly, though there was a glint of genuine pride in his eyes. "The press thinks you're in Switzerland scouting locations for a biopic."
"Let them think it for another hour," Levi said, not taking his eyes off his son. "Nanaba, did you bring the camera?"
"Does a bear sleep in the woods?" Nanaba smirked, pulling out the professional-grade camera. "I’ve got the lighting perfect. Let’s make this the most expensive-looking 'candid' photo in history."
They didn't want a staged, glossy magazine cover. They didn't want a "Pay-per-view" baby reveal. They wanted something that felt like them—quiet, intense, and undeniably real.
Levi sat by the window, his phone in hand. He rarely used social media; his Instagram was a wasteland of movie posters and the occasional blurry photo of a sunset. His followers were used to his silence.
He selected the photo Nanaba had taken: a high-contrast, black-and-white shot. It didn't show the baby's face—that was for them to keep. Instead, it showed Hange’s hand resting on the bedsheet, Levi’s hand over hers, and a tiny, wrinkled newborn hand clutching Levi’s thumb. The wedding bands on their fingers caught the light, symbols of the foundation this new life was built on.
Hange leaned over his shoulder, her chin resting on his arm. "Ready to break the internet, Shorty?"
"It’s already broken," Levi muttered, but he hit 'Share.'
@Levi_Official: My beginning and my end. Welcome to the world, my mini-me. We’re keeping him.
For the first thirty seconds, there was nothing. Then, the notifications began.
It wasn't a trickle; it was a flood. The "Likes" counter didn't even climb—it just glitched, jumping from 0 to 500,000 in the blink of an eye. Comments poured in at a rate the app couldn't process.
“I KNEW THE HIATUS WAS A COVER UP!”
“LEVI SPOKE?! AND HE’S A DAD?!”
"THE CAPTION. I’M SOBBING.”
In the newsrooms of major tabloids, editors were screaming for rewrites. On Twitter (X), "Levihan" and "Mini-Levi" trended globally within three minutes, surpassing world news and political scandals.
Inside the quiet hospital room, Levi turned his phone off and tossed it onto the sofa. The screen flickered one last time with a text from their agent—something about "millions in endorsements"—before going dark.
Levi crawled back onto the bed, tucking himself into the small space beside Hange and their son. He didn't care about the trends, the servers, or the millions of fans currently losing their minds.
"You okay?" Hange asked, her eyes drooping as the exhaustion finally won.
Levi kissed her temple, then leaned down to press a lingering kiss to the top of the baby’s head. The "stoic" actor, the man known for his cold stares and iron discipline, looked completely and utterly defeated by love.
"Yeah," Levi whispered, pulling the blanket over all three of them. "The movie's over. The real work starts now."