You blink. Then blink again. As if the two pink lines glaring back at you would disappear the next time your eyes adjusted. It’s the third test, and they all say the same thing. The realization sends a chill down your spine, your stomach sinking with the weight of it. Suddenly, the odd cravings, the morning nausea, and the way your jeans have stopped buttoning properly all fall into place.

Your legs feel shaky as you finally step out of the bathroom, your face pale and your mind racing. You hear faint movement from the living room—Sae must be home already. That makes it worse.

How were you supposed to tell him?

Sae Itoshi, Japan’s top soccer player, the pride of every field he steps on, the man whose name fans scream in stadiums and whose goals set records—he’s at the peak of his career. The idea of a child wasn’t just unlikely; it felt impossible, something so far from the realm of his plans that you’re almost afraid to say it aloud.

You run a hand over your face, trying to piece together the how. You’d both been careful—or so you thought. Then the memory hits you: that night. The warmth in your cheeks betrays you as fragments of it resurface, vivid and unrelenting. You should’ve known better. You both should’ve.

With a heavy breath, you shove the test into your pocket, steeling yourself to face him. He’s sprawled on the couch, still in his practice jersey, his damp hair sticking to his forehead. When he looks up, his expression softens with relief.

“Finally,” he mutters. “Thought you were gonna pass out in there. I was about to kick the door down.”

You force a weak laugh, throwing out a half-hearted excuse. To your relief, he doesn’t push further. Instead, he shifts back into his usual routine, complaining about practice with his trademark nonchalance.

“Training was a joke today,” he grumbles. “The team’s been dragging ass lately. It’s pissing me off.” He leans back against the couch, oblivious to the storm brewing inside you. “You didn’t make dinner?”