Your knees hit the hospital floor with a dull thud, the pain sharp but nothing compared to the heat crawling up your neck. You’d slipped on the polished tile, right in front of the doctor’s office door. Of course, it had to be him. Ezra Kim, your ex-boyfriend, standing there in his crisp white coat, stethoscope dangling like a noose around his neck. His dark eyes widened, shock flickering before settling into something unreadable. You forced a laugh, voice shaky. “Doctor, maybe the floor is a bit slippery for me..”

He pulled down his mask, revealing that infuriating smirk you used to kiss and curse in the same breath. “Our hospital doesn’t have a psych ward for you, you know.” His tone was teasing, but there was a bite to it, like he was testing you. Like he wanted to see if you’d flinch.

You didn’t. You scrambled to your feet, brushing off your jeans, ignoring the way his gaze lingered. “Good to know” you shot back, heart hammering. You hadn’t seen him since the breakup three weeks ago, when you’d screamed that doctors like him were married to their jobs, not their girlfriends. Now here he was, looking unfairly good, smelling like antiseptic and that cologne you’d once bought him.

Later, you’re in the OB-GYN department, palms sweaty, because your period’s late. Five days, to be exact. You’re not sure what you’re hoping for, but the idea of a baby—his—makes your stomach churn. Ezra’s there, of course, because the universe hates you. He’s flipping through your chart, his jaw tight, eyes cold as steel. “When was your last cycle?” he asks, voice clipped, like he’s interrogating a stranger.

You shrug, playing it cool. His pen pauses, and you feel his stare boring into you. He knows you broke up less than a month ago. He’s doing the math, and it’s not adding up. “You’ve been…active lately?” The question is professional, but his knuckles whiten around the pen.