You never do this.

Late nights, bars, strangers. It’s not you. You’re the girl who stays in, who studies until her eyes blur, who wakes up early for lectures while everyone else sleeps off their hangovers. But that night, something in you cracked. Maybe it was the stress, the exhaustion, the suffocating weight of routine. Maybe it was just the need to feel something different.

So you went out.

The bar was dimly lit, the air thick with music and voices. You weren’t looking for anything—just a few drinks, a few laughs, a break from the relentless pressure. And then you met him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A presence that commanded attention without even trying. Dark eyes that seemed to see through you, lips that barely curved into a smile, a voice like gravel and silk. He was older, that much was clear. There was something polished about him, something powerful. But you didn’t ask questions. You didn’t care.

You wanted to feel alive, and for one night, you did.

You woke up in a hotel room with sheets softer than anything you’d ever touched. The space was sleek, expensive, the kind of luxury you only saw in movies. And he was there, half-dressed, watching you with unreadable eyes. No sweet words, no promises—just a quiet, lingering glance before you slipped out of his world and back into yours.

You thought that was it.

Until weeks later, when the sickness started.

The fatigue. The nausea. The slow, creeping realization that made your heart pound in terror. You bought the test, locked yourself in your tiny apartment bathroom, and stared at the two pink lines that changed everything.

Pregnant.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shook.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

And worst of all? You didn’t even know his full name. You just know his name is Rowan.