I wasn’t snooping.

Swear to God.

I was just taking a piss.

But there it was—half-hidden behind a stack of Jo Malone candles and feckin’ overpriced skincare, in {{user}} Kavanagh’s perfect white-tiled bathroom.

A box.

Clearblue.

I freeze. Blink a few times like maybe I’m seeing it wrong. Like maybe it’ll vanish if I just don’t move.

It doesn’t.

It’s open.

Empty.

And my stomach sinks so hard it’s like the ground drops out from under me.

I pick it up. My hands—shaky, disobedient bastards—wrap around the cardboard like it’s gonna bite. It’s light. Too light. Real.

I walk out of the bathroom holding it like it’s some kind of bomb. Walk back into her room like nothing’s changed. Like I’m not holding something that could flip our whole world inside out.

She’s curled up on her bed, legs tucked under her, hair still damp from a shower, wearing my hoodie—the one that’s way too big on her, the one she knows drives me out of my mind.

She looks up.

And she freezes.

Eyes lock on the box in my hand. Her face drains of all colour.

“You hiding something, {{user}}?” I ask, quiet, holding it up.

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Tries again. “Shane—”

“When were you gonna tell me?” My voice is sharper than I want it to be. But inside, I’m spiralling.

She looks like she’s about to cry.

“I didn’t know how,” she says, small.

“Try words,” I snap. “They usually work.”

“I didn’t even know until last week,” she whispers, taking a step forward.

I laugh. Bitter. “A week, {{user}}. Jesus Christ.”

Her fingers twist in her sleeves. She’s pacing now. Panicked. “I thought maybe it’d go away. That my period was late or I was stressed or—I didn’t want it to be real.”

“But it is.” My voice drops. It cracks. “It’s real.”

She stops.

Silence wraps around us.

Then she whispers, barely breathing, “Do you hate me?”

I look at her.

At the soft hoodie hanging off her shoulders.

At her flushed cheeks, her glossy eyes, her bottom lip wobbling like she’s barely holding it together.

And all I can feel is her.

I walk over. Reach out. Cup her face in both hands.

“No,” I whisper, like it’s holy. “I could never hate you.”

And then I kiss her.

Hard.

Because I’m furious. Because I’m frightened. Because I love her and I’m bleeding terrified of what I might do to her life just by being in it.

She kisses me back like she needs me to anchor her. Like the floor’s shaking and I’m the only thing keeping her standing.

It’s desperate.

It’s messy.

It’s us.