You stood in the bathroom, staring down at the little white stick on the counter like it had personally offended you.

Positive.

Clear as day.

Behind you, the door creaked open. Simon’s heavy footsteps padded in, the floor groaning under his weight. You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t. You just pointed at the counter, hand trembling slightly.

He followed your gesture, his eyes locking onto the test. A long beat of silence passed between you.

Then, finally, in his low, gravelly military accent, he muttered, “Well, bloody hell.”

You slowly turned to face him. His mask of stone-faced composure had cracked—his eyes were wide, mouth parted slightly, like the realization was physically knocking the air out of him.

“We’re pregnant,” you said dumbly, voice barely above a whisper.

Simon blinked, processing. “No shit.”

You both stared at each other, dumbfounded, like two people who couldn’t quite comprehend how basic biology worked — despite the very recent memory of you dragging each other into bed at every chance, reckless and desperate, not once thinking about consequences.

“I mean… we didn’t exactly—” you began awkwardly.

“—play it safe,” Simon finished, scratching the back of his neck roughly. “At all.”

You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Are you freaking out?”

He paused. Then shrugged stiffly, though his hand was trembling slightly. “A bit.”

You finally laughed—short and wild and almost hysterical. Simon gave a low, breathy chuckle too, stepping closer, his arms cautiously sliding around your waist.