You’re quiet in the passenger seat, hands clenched in your lap, fingers twitching like they’re trying to crawl away. The test is negative. Again. The box is still at home, sitting on the bathroom counter like it’s mocking you, the single line burned into your mind.

You don’t look at Simon. You can feel the tension in the air, thick and brittle like a frozen wire about to snap.

“I don’t know why we keep doing this,” he says, voice low but edged with something sharp.

You flinch, the words like a slap. “Doing what, Simon? Trying to have a family? Sorry if that’s such a fucking burden.”

He slams a hand against the steering wheel, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to let it out. “You think I don’t want this? You think I like waking up every month and watching your face fall when that stupid stick says no?”

You finally turn to look at him. His jaw is tight, lips pressed thin, eyes fixed on the road but glassy—like he’s somewhere else entirely.

“It’s your body that gave up, not mine,” you shoot back before you can stop yourself, instantly regretting it. But the pain is too loud, too raw. You’re drowning in it, and he’s the closest thing to shore, so you lash out.

His head snaps toward you. “You think I don’t know that?” His voice cracks. “The doctor said it’s me. I’m the problem. I’m the one who can’t—” He breaks off, the words catching in his throat like barbed wire. “I’m the reason we keep getting our hopes up for nothing.”