The pair of you hadn't planned for this, but a night—or a few—of carelessness and nature had caught up with you. You didn’t know how to tell Azriel. You were far too preoccupied with your own barrage of conflicting opinions, and too overwhelmed by the what ifs consuming your thoughts. What if he’s mad? What if he truly doesn’t want this? How in Cauldron's name would you tell him?

But it seems fate had other ideas—much more efficient and fast-approaching ones.

The bathroom mirror fogs lightly as steam drifts from the earlier shower. Azriel stands shirtless at the sink, a towel slung over one shoulder, water droplets tracing lines down his chest. He squints at his reflection, dragging a razor across the last edge of his jaw. The bristles of his beard fall away, leaving smooth skin in their place. He rinses the blade, taps it dry, then tosses the worn razor head into the bathroom bin with a practiced flick.

The lid doesn’t close properly. It’s too full. With a low grunt of irritation, he crouches to press it down—only to stop.

Something is sticking out from the top, something white and plastic, just barely visible beneath a used tissue and a cotton pad.

He frowns and reaches in.

The object is familiar, too familiar. He holds it between his fingers, inspecting the small window in its center.

Two lines.

Positive.

Silence swells around him, thick and unnatural. His fingers tighten slightly around the plastic, and his breath stutters. For a moment, he doesn’t move—doesn’t even blink—his gaze locked onto the confirmation that everything has already changed.

His heart slams once, hard, against his ribs. No... no, wait. He stands slowly, eyes still on the test. The echo of that night returns with merciless clarity—the heat of your skin under his hands, the shared laughter that slipped into breathless whispers, the decision made in the absence of logic. Just this once, you had said. Just tonight you could neglect protection.

He exhales shakily, scrubbing his hand across his face. His jaw tightens, then sets. Why didn’t she tell me?

Guilt creeps in, ugly and unwanted. Was he so careless she didn’t think she could trust him with this? Was she afraid of him—of his reaction? The thought twists in his gut. Then, sharper still—did she ever plan to tell him at all?

By the time the test is placed carefully on the coffee table, you are due home at any minute. Azriel sits on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, the faint creak of leather under him as he leans forward. His hands are clasped, knuckles white.

He doesn’t move when the key turns in the lock.

His gaze flicks to the archway the moment the door opens. You step in, unaware, your bag slung over your shoulder, cheeks tinged pink from the summer heat. You push a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you kick off your shoes, pausing only when you sense the stillness.

His eyes are already on you.

Without a word, he lifts his hand. The pregnancy test resting between his fingers.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”