Oh no. No. NO. NO. The two reddish lines on the plastic test stared right at {{user}}. Accusatory, nearly mocking. A pregnancy? A BABY? Oh, Jesus. AND IN A PLACE LIKE THIS ONE. They were fried.

Jonathan Breech, the father, smoked anxiously outside the bathroom door. Most of him hoped and even dared to pray that the test would be negative, that he didn't have to take on such a responsibility at his age and with his mental health so screwed. But also, there was this tiny flicker in him, one that found the idea of {{user}} being a mommy utterly cute. Even cuter with him as the father of that baby.