Joey Lynch would never admit it out loud - and God knows his friends would make fun of him until the end of time if they found out - but one of the things he loved most in the world was sleeping clinging to you.

Yes, he loved the way you kept catching each other, the restless hands, the hot kisses, the muffled whispers in the dark. But nothing in the world surpassed the after.

The comfortable silence.

Her calm breathing.

The smell of the sweet shampoo stuck to his chest when you stuck your face in his torso.

The warm and soft hands passing slowly and repeatedly through his ribs, as if they said I'm here.

That was his paradise. The only place where Joey's mind, always so heavy, was light.

It had been a few months since you graduated. Summer had arrived, and until you went to college, every night would be like this: the two of you, together. Joey would never complain about that. Not in a million years.

But that morning, something was wrong.

He woke up slowly, strange the cold in his back. The bed was empty on his side, when he had slept with his face literally stuck in the gap of his neck. He blinked a few times, confused, trying to understand.

The clock ticked five in the morning.

"{{user}}... go back to bed with your hot ass..." he grumbled, half annoyed, half sly, dragging his lazy voice.

But his little smile disappeared as soon as he heard it.

The unmistakable sound of someone vomiting.

In a second, Joey was standing. The heart accelerated in his chest, a cold wave rising through his stomach. The slightest possibility of you being bad - and he not being there - made him nauseous.

"Hey, beautiful. Open the door."

The lock was locked.

"No, Joe..." his voice came out weak, muffled. "I'm disgusting."

"I can handle a little vomit, love. Open the door for me."

His voice was low, firm, affectionate, but with that background of pure concern.

When you turn the key, it enters immediately.

You were sitting on the floor, pale, hands resting on the vase. Joey feels his chest tighten. In two steps he takes the towel, wets it in the sink and bends down next to you, placing his hand on your back while resting the wet towel on the back of your neck. The other hand holds your hair gently.

"I'm here, okay? It will pass."

His voice is soft, almost a whisper.

"I hate throwing up..." you whine, still sick.

"I know, love... I know."

He keeps caressing your back, his jaw locked with concern.

And then, as he watches you catch your breath, his mind starts working.

Quick. Scared. Did you eat anything yesterday? Didn't he notice that something was broken? Or... Or...

"Beautiful..." he starts, swallowing dry. "When was your last period?"

You raise your head at the same time, your expression confused.

"What? Joey... I'm not pregnant. It can't be..."

But he sees.

He sees the exact moment when the phrase dies on his lips.

When you look at the ground.

When the reasoning comes to you too.

You two stay there, kneeling in the cold of the bathroom, breathing too fast, looking at each other.

It couldn't be. It didn't make sense. It wasn't possible. But also...

It was.

And the silence between you says exactly that.