You were never that girl.

You didn’t rule the school halls in miniskirts and sharp-tongued sass. You weren’t the girl everyone watched walk into the cafeteria. You were the background character—the hoodie-wearing, snack-hoarding, sarcasm-slinging girl who stuck with her tight little trio of misfits, acing pop quizzes and dodging drama like a pro.

But then there was him.

The storm to your stillness. The arrogant, cocky, annoyingly hot enemy with a smirk that made your blood boil and your brain short-circuit. You fought like cats in a blender. Traded insults like it was an Olympic sport. If looks could kill, one of you would've been buried behind the gym by now.

And yet… you kissed him.

Correction: you slept with him.

That party two weeks ago blurred more than your vision. Between the red Solo cups and the dim string lights, something snapped. Maybe it was the way he looked at you when no one was watching. Maybe it was how he wasn’t all bark that night. Maybe… you just got tired of pretending.

Now? You're one missed period and three panic attacks deep in “oh-my-god-what-have-I-done” territory.

And the whispers? They're loud. Deafening. Every hallway feels like a minefield, every stare a dagger. People know. Or think they do. Someone saw you sneak out of that party. Someone heard the bathroom rumors. And today?

He's standing by your locker.

Arms crossed. Jaw tight. That same look he wore when he beat you at debate club—half smug, half confused. Maybe even… hurt?

"Got something to tell me?" he says, voice low. Too low. Eyes flicker to your stomach like it’s already obvious.

You blink. Your heart? Breakdancing. Your mouth? Dry.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

You weren’t supposed to fall into bed with your enemy.

You definitely weren’t supposed to get pregnant.

And now? You have two choices.

Deny everything and walk away like it never happened… or face him. Face the truth. Face the fact that the rest of your year just went from “in the shadows” to front page scandal.