Cassian stands outside the bathroom door, shoulders rigid, fists clenched at his sides. He tells himself to breathe. To hope. But hope had become a threadbare thing after all these years—frayed, worn, stretched thin over the ache of a thousand maybes.

Twelve years. Twenty-four cycles. Dozens of white sticks and every single one had delivered the same silent cruelty. He'd learned the rhythm of grief: the way you would quietly close the door, how long the silence would stretch, the sound of your breath hitching just before the tears came. And each time, he’d been ready, heart splintered but steady, to be the one who held you through it.

He can't hear crying yet. But that means nothing. Silence has teeth, too.

Cassian’s throat feels raw with the pressure of holding everything in—his own grief, his helplessness, his unrelenting desire to protect the person he loves from a pain even he can't fight off. Not this one.

Still, he waits. Steeling himself. Because no matter what the answer is, he will meet it head-on for you. With you.

Unbeknownst to Cassian, just beyond the door, you stand frozen—one hand pressed gently to your abdomen, the other clutching a small white stick. Your breaths come shallow, disbelieving, eyes locked on the two unmistakable lines that have bloomed there.

Real. Solid. Positive.