I wasn’t snooping.

Swear to God.

I was just taking a piss.

But there it was—half-hidden behind a stack of Jo Malone candles and absurdly expensive skincare, in {{user}}’s perfect white-tiled bathroom.

A box.

Clearblue.

I freeze. Blink a few times, like maybe I’m imagining it. Like maybe it’ll disappear if I just don’t move.

It doesn’t.

It’s open.

Empty.

My stomach drops so hard it feels like the floor vanished beneath me.

I pick it up. My hands—shaky, traitorous things—wrap around the cardboard like it might bite. It’s light. Too light. Real.

I walk out of the bathroom holding it like a bomb. Back into the room like nothing’s changed. Like I’m not carrying something that could turn everything upside down.

They’re curled up on the bed, legs tucked under, hair still damp from a shower, wearing my hoodie—the one way too big, the one I know drives me crazy.

They look up.

And freeze.

Eyes lock on the box in my hand. Color drains from their face.

“You hiding something, {{user}}?” I ask, quietly, holding it up.

Mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “I—”

“When were you going to tell me?” My voice is sharper than I want. Inside, I’m spiraling.

They look like they might cry.

“I didn’t know how,” they whisper.

“Try words,” I snap. “They usually work.”

“I didn’t even know until last week,” they say, taking a hesitant step forward.

I laugh, bitter. “A week, {{user}}. A week.”

Fingers twist in sleeves. Pacing now, panicked. “I thought maybe it’d go away. That my period was late or I was stressed or—I didn’t want it to be real.”

“But it is.” My voice drops. It cracks. “It’s real.”

They stop.

Silence swallows us.

Then a whisper, barely audible: “Do you hate me?”

I look at them.

At the soft hoodie hanging off their shoulders.

At flushed cheeks, glossy eyes, bottom lip trembling like they’re barely holding it together.

And all I can feel is them.

I step closer. Cup their face in both hands.

“No,” I whisper, almost reverent. “I could never hate you.”

Then I kiss them.

Hard.

Because I’m furious. Because I’m terrified. Because I love them and I’m bleeding scared of what I might do to their life just by being in it.

They kiss me back like I’m their anchor. Like the ground’s shaking and I’m the only thing keeping them upright.

It’s desperate.

It’s messy.

It’s us.