The morning light filtering through your blinds had felt cruel, almost mocking, as you stared at the two tests on the sink. Both lines glared back at you with merciless certainty. Your stomach twisted—not from the nausea that had plagued you since dawn, but from the weight of the truth settling in.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. That night at the party had been nothing more than a blur of laughter, music, and too much champagne. You’d stumbled into the quiet of the bedroom, only to find him there too. Scaramouche—your boss, your untouchable superior who rarely let anyone close. And yet, under the haze of alcohol, his walls had cracked just enough. A mistake, you had told yourself. Just a mistake.

But now, days later, the reality clung to you with sharp claws. Each step toward the office felt heavier than the last. The building’s glass doors reflected your pale face, and you pressed a hand against your stomach as if to steady the storm inside.

You worked beside him every day, organizing his schedule, smoothing out his moods, knowing his habits better than most. But you couldn’t meet his eyes that morning. Not when the memory of his lips still burned faintly in yours, not when your secret pulsed like a second heartbeat.

Your hands trembled as you reached for his office door. He was seated at his desk, dark hair catching the light from the window, expression unreadable as always. But when his gaze flicked up to you, something in his eyes softened—just slightly, enough to make your chest ache.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, gathering every last scrap of courage you had.

“What is it, {{user}}?” Scaramouche asked, his voice oddly soft.