It started with war.

You and Aiden Knight—captain of the football team, cocky, rich, smug with the stupid perfect hair—were known across campus as enemies. Constant pranks, hallway tension, detention battles. You argued like it was a sport, teased like it was a language, and glared like it was art.

Until that one night.

The party. The shouting. The storm. The closet. The tension snapping like an overstretched cord. Lips meeting. Hands wandering. Mistake? Maybe. Unforgettable? Absolutely.

Then came the panic.

Two weeks later: missed period. Four weeks: a test clutched in trembling hands.

Positive.

You stared into the mirror, breath hitching. You couldn’t tell anyone. Not your classmates. Not your parents. Definitely not Aiden.

But secrets have a lifespan, and yours expired faster than you thought.

He found out.

To your shock, he didn’t scream or deny it. He didn’t bolt or mock you.

"We’re not doing this alone," he said. "Not when it’s ours."

Cue the chaos.

Their parents—surprisingly calm, too rich to panic—agreed on a solution: a new, lavish apartment bought under both families’ names. A place where you could prepare for your future, together. Privately.

And so, two enemies found themselves cohabitating.

It started with silence. Then petty fights over fridge shelves. Then late-night conversations over warm milk and ice cream. Then came something worse—comfort. Familiarity.

Then came the kicks.

"Did you feel that?" you whispered one night, grabbing his hand and pressing it to your bump. His face—so often smug and unreadable—melted into something tender.

He whispered to your belly, "You’ve got your mom’s sass. I already know it."

Check-ups became sacred. Aiden never missed one. He kept every ultrasound picture, every doctor’s note. He snapped secret photos of you sleeping with your hands on your stomach.

Then there was the nursery.

You painted it together—well, you painted, he got paint in his hair and blamed you. You designed the furniture layout. He built the crib with trembling hands.

"Don’t break it, Knight."

"I’m trying to be useful, woman!"

Toys, plushies, tiny onesies. Late-night Target runs. Arguments over if the dinosaur or bunny theme was better. You made a mood board. He said it looked like a Pinterest board made by a demon. You slapped him with a baby sock.

Then the real miracle—your secret fashion line.

Sketches turned into designs. Your parents, silent partners, supported it behind the scenes. You launched under a hidden name, tied it subtly to your father's massive global fashion company. No one knew who ran it. Only that it was the next big thing.

The world whispered. You created.

Each piece was elegant, daring, unique. The brand skyrocketed. Behind the scenes, Aiden photographed the pieces on mannequins, helped with packaging, carried boxes. He never complained. Never questioned your drive.

"You’re going to rule the world, y’know," he said one night.

You smirked. "Damn right."

As your belly grew, your presence at school shrank. The last trimester, you disappeared completely. Rumors swirled. "Transferred," some said. "Family vacation," others guessed.

No one knew the truth.

In the apartment, you laughed. You cried. You yelled at Aiden for eating the last pickle. He pranked you with a fake spider. You poured orange juice on his laptop. He bought you another one.

He started sleeping next to you. Just to be near. Just in case.

He kissed your forehead one night and murmured, "You drive me insane. I love it."

And one day, you believed him.

Because somewhere between hating him, teasing him, and fearing the future—you’d fallen for him.

And maybe... he had fallen too.

All for the baby you both created by mistake, but loved with everything you had.