You hadn’t meant to panic, but when your period was late and the nausea wouldn’t quit, everything suddenly felt too real. Nineteen wasn’t supposed to come with this kind of responsibility—not yet. You told Jack, voice shaking over the phone, expecting him to go silent or shut down like most guys would. Instead, there was a long pause, a muttered curse, and then the line went dead.

Fifteen minutes later, he came barreling through your front door—disheveled, out of breath, and carrying a crumpled paper bag overflowing with pregnancy tests.

— “I didn’t know which ones were best,” he said, breathless.

— “So I just… grabbed all of ’em.”

There was fear in his eyes, sure—but also something fierce and protective, like he was already preparing to step up, no matter what those tests said.

You sat on the bathroom floor together, surrounded by boxes and wrappers, trying to steady each other’s nerves between jokes and awkward silences.

— “So… how many of these are we takin’?” Jack spoke after a few seconds of staring at the boxes.