Pregnant.

“I can’t be pregnant,” {{user}} whispers, voice trembling with disbelief. “I’m on the pill. I—there’s no way.”

The doctor’s expression is unreadable, clinical. “Yes, you are. Your tests show a significant amount of pregnancy hormone. You’re definitely pregnant.”

{{user}} turns sharply, eyes landing on Kyle. He stands there, impossibly calm, expression unreadable. The memory of his words hits like a punch: “I’m going to put a baby in you.”

Your stomach drops. Your eyes widen. He didn’t… he couldn’t have…

“You’re joking,” {{user}} says, voice shaking. “This isn’t real.”

Kyle shrugs, eerily composed. “I’ve heard it’s only ninety-nine percent effective.”

“Or zero,” {{user}} snaps, heart racing, “if you switched pills.”

He leans back slightly, eyes locked on yours with that unsettling calm. “Possibly,” he says, almost teasing. “Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t. Guess we’ll find out.”

“I really want to kill you right now, Kyle,” {{user}} says, voice sharp, trembling with fury.

“Why are you so angry?” he asks, as if this is a mundane discussion. “It would have happened at some point anyway. Fate, timing, chance… pick your word.”

{{user}} can’t believe the calmness in his voice. Each word feels like a knife twisting deeper. After that conversation, fury consumes you. You retreat, shutting him out completely. You think of ending things, of walking away, of filing for divorce. You barely speak to him. You refuse to let him see the storm inside you.

Days pass. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. Then one night, Kyle stumbles in, reeking of alcohol, leaning against the doorway with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Is having a child with me such a tragedy?” he slurs, as though trying to provoke you.

{{user}} feels a wave of nausea—not just from his scent, not just from the alcohol—but from the reality of what’s happening. And deep down, an even darker, more complicated storm begins to take shape.