Roisin's POV

The sun shouldn't feel this bright.
Or maybe it's just guilt making my eyes sting.

It's been three days since that night, and I've done everything I can to bury it. I've scrubbed the memory clean from my thoughts, folded it into the quietest corner of my mind. Pretend. Move on. Forget.

Nichole, of course, won't let me.

"So..." she says, stretching the word like gum as she leans against the kitchen counter. "You disappeared Friday night and didn't come home until Saturday afternoon. Should I even ask?"

I pour cereal into a bowl, focusing on the clinking sound instead of her grin. "I told you. I was tired. I stayed with a friend."

"Uh-huh." She props her chin on her hand. "A tall, mysterious, probably-sinful friend?"

I choke on my spoonful of milk. "You watch too many dramas."

Nichole laughs, pushing the box of cereal toward me. "You never do anything spontaneous, Rose. If you finally did, I'm proud of you. Just... tell me he wasn't a creep."

I think of gray eyes, steady hands, the skyline at dawn. "No," I whisper. "He wasn't."

"That's it? No name? No number?"

I shake my head. "It doesn't matter. It was... nothing."

Nichole watches me for a moment, her teasing fading into concern. "Okay. But don't do the thing where you overthink it into the ground, all right? It's summer. We survived finals. Let's actually live for once."

I manage a smile I don't feel. "Yeah. Sure."

⸻

The next week drifts by in pieces.
Work shifts at the café. Netflix marathons with Nichole. Trying not to look at my phone like I expect a message that doesn't exist.

At night, I replay the smallest details: his voice, the city lights reflected on glass, the way his hand lingered on my skin as if memorizing it. Then I remind myself that he probably doesn't even remember my name.

By day seven, the dream should have faded.
But instead, I wake up nauseous.

Probably stress, I tell myself. Or that sushi from yesterday.

Except the same thing happens the next morning. And the next.

By the time I'm standing in the pharmacy aisle, staring at a wall of pink-and-white boxes, my hands are trembling. I grab one without thinking, stuff it into my basket, and pay without meeting the cashier's eyes.

Back home, the apartment is quiet. Nichole's out. The air smells like coffee and detergent.

I sit on the edge of the bathtub, the test clutched in my hand, heartbeat loud in my ears.

Minutes drag like hours.
When the little screen finally flashes two faint lines, the world tilts.

I don't cry.
I don't scream.
I just sit there, numb, as the truth settles in like a stone sinking to the bottom of water.

One night.
One mistake.
One impossible reality.

I whisper to the empty room, "What am I supposed to do now?"
____

The little plastic stick lies face-down on the counter, but it doesn't matter. I can still see the lines when I close my eyes—sharp, undeniable.

Pregnant.

The word echoes, too loud for the small bathroom.

I sit on the tile for what feels like hours, the hum of the bathroom fan filling the silence. Part of me expects to wake up, rewind to that morning when the biggest problem I had was choosing between coffee or tea.

When the tears finally come, they're quiet.

⸻

Nichole finds me later, curled up on the couch with a blanket around my shoulders and a mug of cold tea in my hands.
"You look awful," she says gently. "What's wrong?"

"Just tired," I lie.

She narrows her eyes. "You've been tired all week."

"I'll be fine," I promise, forcing a small smile.

She hesitates, then lets it go. "Fine, but we're ordering pizza and watching terrible movies tonight. Doctor's orders."

"Deal."

I love her for not pressing, but guilt twists in my chest. I want to tell her everything—the night, the test, the panic clawing at me—but the words stick like glass in my throat.

⸻

Days pass in fragments. I move through them like a ghost. Work. Home. Smile when expected. Pretend when I can.

At night, I Google everything—symptoms, timelines, options—each page worse than the last. Every answer only spawns more questions. I close my laptop, heart pounding.

The father.
I don't even know his last name.

I try to picture calling the club, asking for him, and immediately imagine the headlines: Desperate girl tracks down billionaire after one-night stand.

No.
I can't.

So I decide.

I'll handle it myself. Quietly. No drama. No strangers involved.

⸻

By the third week, my body betrays me—queasiness, exhaustion, the kind of hunger that comes out of nowhere. I wear loose clothes, keep my head down, and pray no one notices.

One afternoon, I'm at the café where I work, wiping down a table when a voice at the counter freezes me. Deep. Smooth. Familiar.

"I'll take an Americano. Black."

My hand stills.

No. It can't be.

I turn, slow, careful.
And there he is.

He looks exactly the same—tailored suit, calm confidence, the faint crease between his brows as he studies his phone. He doesn't see me; he's lost in whatever world he belongs to.

My heart slams against my ribs.

I duck behind the espresso machine, hoping he won't look up, but my coworker calls, "Roisin, can you take the order?"

My name.

He lifts his head.

For a breath, our eyes meet, and the world goes silent again. Recognition flickers in his gaze—followed by surprise, then something else I can't name.

"Roisin," he says slowly, as if testing the sound of it.

I force a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "Americano, right?"

He nods, still watching me. "Didn't think I'd see you again."

"Life's full of surprises," I say, turning away before he can read the panic in my face.

My hands shake as I slide the cup across the counter.

When I finally look up, he's gone. The space he occupied feels charged, like a storm passed through and left the air buzzing.

I press a hand to my stomach, trying to calm the flutter inside me.

He can't know.

Not yet.
Maybe not ever.