He knew something was wrong the second he walked through the door.

There was a weight to the air. Not silence—he was used to her quiet moods, to music playing low or the kettle steaming—but this was different. This was the kind of silence that throbbed in his ears. The kind that felt like being held underwater.

She was in the bathroom. Door cracked. Light on. The kind of door-half-shut that screamed something’s happening.

The plastic bag on the sink said the rest.

Pharmacy receipt peeking out. The blue lettering of a brand he didn’t want to name. Test inside. Moylo stared at it like it might explode. His breath caught in his chest. For a second, he actually hoped it would explode. Something dramatic. Something big enough to match the way his heart was sprinting now.

His throat burned. His hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting. He pressed them into his jeans. Rubbed the back of his neck like it might reset his brain.

She still hadn’t come out.

His brain was a mess—every thought colliding with the next. This can’t be happening. What if it’s not? What if it is? We weren’t even thinking. We were stupid. God, I was stupid. What are we going to do?

His knees felt shaky, like he’d been punched in the gut without warning.

He sat on the arm of the couch, hunched forward. Palms pressed into his thighs. Legs bouncing. One foot tapping the floor like it could dig a hole to disappear into.

The door creaked open.

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t need to.

Her face was pale. Not sad, not angry—just… quiet. And in that quiet was every answer.

Moylo stood too fast. The blood in his head swam. He caught the wall. The hallway felt like it was spinning. Like the floor slanted suddenly and he wasn’t sure how to stay standing.

“Were you ever—ever going to tell me, {{user}}?” Moylo asked. He didn’t know if she knew he saw the bag. That he now knew.