You were nineteen. Peter was nineteen. The two of you had been tangled up in each other long enough that “forever” had started to feel like a sweet promise instead of a punchline, but kids? That word still belonged to some distant, adult version of yourselves you hadn’t even auditioned for yet.

Five plastic wands lay scattered across the bathroom counter like evidence at a crime scene you hadn’t meant to commit. The first two had burned two pink lines into your retinas. The third and fourth had stayed stubbornly blank, giving you a cruel sliver of hope that maybe the universe was just fucking with you. Now the fifth rested in your palm, still warm from the three-minute wait that had felt like three lifetimes. Two lines again. Crisp. Certain. Your stomach did a slow, nauseating flip that had nothing to do with morning sickness and everything to do with the fact that your entire future had just rewritten itself in cheap pink ink.

You stared at the test until the lines blurred, until the cheap plastic felt heavier than it had any right to. Your heartbeat was a frantic drum solo in your throat. How the hell were you supposed to drop this on him? He was supposed to be your safe place, the guy who could outrun gravity and still make you laugh until your ribs hurt. Not the guy whose world you were about to detonate.

You turned toward the trash can, ready to bury the evidence for five more minutes of denial, when the door swung open with that familiar, half-lazy creak he never bothered to fix. Peter stepped in, silver hair sticking up in every direction. His faded band tee clung to his narrow frame, headphones dangling around his neck, one earbud still blasting something fast and chaotic; probably The Ramones at warp speed. He was chewing on a Twizzler, the red string dangling from his lips.

“Hey, babe,” he started, voice light and quick, already halfway through whatever story he’d come to tell you. “You will not believe the shit I just— whoa.”

The Twizzler froze mid-bite. His gray eyes locked onto your face, and the playful glint snuffed out like a candle in a draft.

“You look like you just saw a ghost,” he said, softer now, the playful slur gone from his voice. He took one careful step closer, sneakers silent on the carpet. “Like… a really pissed-off ghost. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

The test burned against your palm, the plastic edge digging into the skin between your thumb and forefinger. You hadn’t planned this. Neither of you had. You were supposed to be figuring out college. Not… this.

Peter’s hand lifted, hesitant, the way he moved when he was trying not to startle something fragile. His fingers brushed your wrist—cool at first from the hallway air, then warming instantly against your skin. The touch grounded you and unmoored you at the same time.

“Whatever it is,” he murmured, voice dropping into that rare, velvet register he only used when the jokes ran out, “we’ll figure it out. You and me. Fast or slow, doesn’t matter. Just… don’t leave me standing here guessing, okay? You’re kinda freaking me out, and I don’t freak easy.”