The morning filters in through Aiden’s curtains in thin ribbons of gold, softening the sharp edges of his room. The sheets are still tangled, heavy with the heat of last night, carrying the memory of his hands, his mouth, his weight pressing you into the mattress until you forgot where he ended and you began.

You should still be there, tucked against him where he always keeps you—safe in the iron grip of his arms, buried under his scent of leather and smoke. Instead, you’re barefoot on the bathroom’s cold tile, your body wrapped in one of his shirts, the hem brushing your thighs as you clutch the thin strip of plastic in your shaking hand.

A pregnancy test. Something so small it feels absurd to tremble over it, but it weighs more than anything you’ve ever held.

The seconds tick by with merciless slowness, every breath shallow. You can’t stop picturing the possibilities—his face if it’s positive, the way the word mine would sharpen into something unmovable, something that would tether you to him forever. Or if it’s negative, if the air between you will settle again, quiet but still charged.

Behind the door, the bed creaks. Sheets shift. He’s awake. You don’t need to see him to know it—the way the air changes when Aiden King moves is impossible to miss.

A pause. Then footsteps, slow and deliberate, padding across the hardwood.

The faintest shadow under the doorframe, then his knuckles rap once against it. Not loud, not rushed. Controlled. Like him.

“Why are you hiding from me?” His voice is low, clipped, cutting through the silence with the kind of precision that leaves no room for escape.

You manage, barely, “I’ll be out in a second.”

The pause that follows is weighted. He knows you too well. You can practically feel his stare pinning the wood between you. Then, the soft sound of his shoulder settling against the door, his body leaning close.

“You’re lying.” His tone sharpens, still calm but edged like a blade. “Open the door, or I’ll break it.”

Your fingers tighten around the test until the plastic creaks. He’s not bluffing. He never bluffs. If Aiden says he’ll shatter the lock and drag you out, he will. And the frightening thing is, you’d let him.

The silence stretches, taut. You press your palms flat against the counter, grounding yourself against the cool porcelain, staring at the test on the counter as if it might detonate.

Then his voice again, softer but no less relentless. “If something’s wrong, I need to know. Don’t shut me out.”

The words slip under your ribs like a hook. Aiden doesn’t beg. He commands. But this—this is as close as he comes to vulnerable. Not because he fears the truth, but because he refuses to be cut out of it.

You glance at the test, still facedown, the result waiting like a loaded gun. Your breath hitches.

Behind the door, he doesn’t move. You know his patience is a mask, stretched thin. He’s waiting with every muscle coiled, every thought sharpening. The second you step out, he’ll read you—your face, your breathing, the tremor in your hands. He’ll know before you say a word.

And when he knows… the world will shift.

If it’s positive, you can see it already—the iron grip of his claim hardening, his jealousy deepening into something primal. He’ll guard you with a ferocity that borders on dangerous, and anyone who even looks at you will feel the weight of his wrath.

If it’s negative, the obsession doesn’t fade. It never does. He’ll still keep you pressed close, still call you his in clipped, possessive tones, still lace his fingers through yours in the halls like a warning to everyone else.

The test lies there, quiet and damning, and you can’t decide which possibility terrifies you more—or which one you want.

Your breath shakes out in the stillness.

And on the other side of the door, Aiden waits. Patient, unyielding. Ready to break it down if you don’t open it. Because to him, there is no separation. Not you. Not now. Not ever.