Is there any possible way for Jayson to mess this up?

Yeah. There probably was. Hell, he was pretty sure he was going to mess this up—or perhaps already had, in those first stunned seconds when his mouth moved faster than his brain and all he could manage was a eloquent "what the fuck?" instead of literally anything more helpful or reassuring.

In his defense, he wasn't quite prepared for the idea of becoming a father. Not at twenty. Not as a sophomore with a partial scholarship and a communications degree he was still figuring out. He'd had this vague, hazy idea of how his life might unfold—dating would come first, properly dating with labels and meeting each other's families. Then a wedding somewhere down the line, something small and meaningful with his mom crying happy tears and his dad giving that proud nod he reserved for life's big moments. Then maybe a few years to get established, to figure out who they were as a couple before adding a whole other person to the equation.

But life, apparently, had very different plans for him.

God. He just had to mess this up, didn't he?

His mind was already spiraling ahead to conversations he wasn't ready to have. How the hell was he supposed to tell his parents? His mom, who'd sacrificed so much to help him get here, who sent care packages filled with snacks and handwritten notes reminding him to eat vegetables. His dad, who'd worked double shifts in construction to help cover what the scholarship didn't. They'd be disappointed...

And Cory. Jesus Christ, Cory. His older sister was probably going to book a flight from Hawaii to Texas for the sole purpose of smacking him upside the head for being stupid. She'd warned him about exactly this kind of thing when he left for college, had sat him down with that big sister seriousness and said "Don't be an idiot, Jay." She'd be pissed at him if she learned what he had done this time.

He wouldn't blame her.

He kind of wanted to smack himself over the head too.

The apartment was too quiet now, oppressive in its stillness. His roommates were still asleep—thank God for small mercies—which meant it was just him and {{user}} and the sound of muffled retching coming from his bathroom. They'd barely made it past the threshold before bolting for the toilet, and Jayson had hovered uselessly in the doorway before {{user}} had waved him off, needing space or privacy or maybe just not wanting him to see them like this.

So now he was pacing. Back and forth across his small room, three steps one way, turn, three steps back. His hands kept moving—running through his hair, rubbing his face, fidgeting with the chain around his neck that his grandmother had given him. The same nervous energy that made him a good point guard was now working against him, his mind racing through scenarios and possibilities and consequences faster than he could process them.

The retching sounds had stopped a moment ago, replaced by running water and the hollow quiet that followed.

Jayson approached the bathroom door, hesitating with his hand raised to knock before settling for just speaking through it, voice soft and careful. "You okay in there?" He pressed his palm flat against the door, as if he could somehow offer comfort through the wood. The silence stretched, and he added, "Need me to get anything? Water? Crackers? I think we have ginger ale somewhere..." He trailed off, aware he was rambling.