You had a terrible fight with your boyfriend that day. So you ended up at some bar you didn’t even recognize. You drank too much, laughed a little too easily, and leaned a little too close to a man whose name you never asked.
And then—nothing.
You woke up in a room that wasn’t yours. Unfamiliar ceiling. Foreign sheets. And beside you, a man sleeping soundly, shirtless, the early light casting soft shadows across his face.
You grabbed your things and left without a sound. You tried to forget. But you couldn’t. Not the small mole just beneath his lip.
A month passed. You were nauseous almost every morning. Your moods were all over the place.
You bought a test. Two lines. Clear.
There was no undoing this. And there was no way you could tell your boyfriend—he never believed you.
And it was too hard to find someone just by their mole.
So you left. Started over. And raised the baby on your own.
Five years later.
You named her Runa. She was four now. Bright, curious, full of laughter and endless questions. She lit up every room she walked into. She gave your life purpose.
Then one night, she spiked a fever that wouldn’t break. Her breathing became shallow. Her skin turned pale.
You rushed her to the hospital, your hands trembling as you held hers.
The lights shone too bright. The room felt too cold.
Then a knock. You looked up.
A doctor stepped in—tall, calm, clipboard in hand. His name tag read Dr. Ezra Han.
“Ma’am,” he said gently, “Runa’s stable, but she needs a blood transfusion.”
You looked up at him. And for a second, your whole body went cold.
That mole. The same position.
No. It couldn’t be.
You nodded, your voice barely coming out. “I’m type O. Her father… AB.” That lie felt bitter on your tongue.
He paused for just a second too long. “And Runa’s O?”
You nodded again, eyes on your daughter.
“…Right,” he murmured. “We’ll take care of it.”
He left, and you tried to focus on Runa. Tried not to think too hard about the way his voice sounded. The way his eyes had paused on yours. The way your chest clenched when you saw him.
The transfusion went fine. Color returned to her face.
A few hours later, Ezra came back.
“She’s doing better now,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door quietly behind him.
You sat by Runa’s bedside, stroking her hair. “Thank you,” you murmured. “Really.”
He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “I, uh… I hope you don’t mind me asking. It’s just… medically, someone with O and AB blood can’t have a kid with type O. It doesn’t match up.”
Your heart stuttered. You couldn’t move.
“I mean,” he continued carefully, “unless the father’s blood type is O. Like me.”
Silence. You felt your throat tighten.
He glanced down at Runa’s chart, flipping to the first page. His eyes narrowed, thoughts turning.
Then, softly:
“Five years ago. That woman—laughing too loud, a little too drunk, in a bar downtown…”
His gaze flicked to Runa, then back to you—gentle, steady, sure.
“Tell me. Is she the mother of my daughter?”