It had been 92 days. He’d counted them like a man serving a sentence. The breakup had been a scorched-earth event, screaming matches that cracked the drywall of their apartment, packed bags thrown into the bed of his truck, and words spat with enough venom to ensure neither would ever look back. He’d told himself he was done with your chaos, you'd told him to go to hell and stay there.

But the woman standing by the crates of oranges wasn't the frazzled, heartbroken girl he’d left in his rearview mirror. You were glowing. Your skin was radiant, your hair thicker, and you looked… soft. Then you turned to the side to reach for a bag of apples, and Frankie’s heart dropped.

You were huge. Not just a little bit of weight from post-breakup depression. You were profoundly, undeniably, incredibly round. The fabric of your sundress was stretched out over a belly that sat high and heavy, a physical manifestation of a timeline Frankie was desperately trying to rewrite in his head. No way, he thought, his grip tightening on the handle of his basket until his knuckles turned white.

Maybe you met someone. Maybe you moved at light speed. But the math hit him. He was a pilot, he lived and died by navigation and precise timing. Three months since the split. You looked at least five or six months along. Unless you'd mastered the art of biological teleportation, that was his. That was his kid you were carrying through the aisles of a Safeway like it wasn't a life-altering secret.

He didn't even think, he just moved. His boots clicked heavy on the linoleum floor.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. You stiffened instantly. You didn't even have to look up to know it was him. Your shoulders hunched, a protective hand immediately flying to the underside of your bump, a gesture so instinctive it made Frankie’s stomach flip. When you finally looked at him, your eyes weren't filled with the longing he’d secretly hoped for. They were cold. Hard.

"Keep walking, Frankie," you snapped, your voice low and dangerous.

"Keep walking? Are you serious?" He stepped into your personal space, his eyes darting down to the curve of your stomach and then back to your face. "You’re practically a goddamn planet, and you’re telling me to keep walking?"

"I don't owe you a single word," you said, your voice trembling with a mix of fury and hormones. You tried to push your cart past him, but he planted his feet. "Get out of my way. I mean it. You made it real clear three months ago that you were done with me and my 'bullshit.' Well, here I am, living my life. Move."

"This isn't 'bullshit,' this is a person!" Frankie hissed, gesturing wildly at your midsection. "The math, sweetheart. The goddamn math doesn't add up to anyone else. Is it mine?"

You let out a harsh, raspy laugh, your eyes shimmering with sudden, angry tears. "Oh, now you’re a mathematician? Now you care about the details? You didn't care about the details when you were slamming the door and peeling out of the driveway. You wanted out, Francisco. You got out. Congratulations, you’re free."

"Don't give me that martyr act," he growled, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low register he used when a mission was going south. "You didn't tell me. You let me walk away knowing-"

"I let you walk away because you were screaming that you couldn't breathe in this relationship!" You yelled, loud enough that an elderly woman near the grapes glanced over. You leaned in, your face inches from his, smelling like the vanilla perfume he used to nuzzle into your neck. "I was going to tell you that night. I had the test on the counter. But you were too busy telling me how much I held you back. So I decided right then... if you wanted to be alone, I’d let you be alone. I don't need a man who only stays because of a 'mistake.'"

"It’s not a mistake," Frankie cracked, his bravado finally fracturing. He reached out, his hand hovering inches from the swell of your belly, trembling. He wanted to touch you, feel if the kid was kicking. "Is it mine?"