"Are you okay?" Veronica leans in, eyebrows pinched, her hand rubbing slow circles on your back like you’re a kid with stage fright instead of someone choking on your own lungs. You cough harder, throat raw, wishing she’d just stop being so nice.

"Since when did you get sick? I know it’s winter, but Jesus." She laughs under her breath, like she’s trying to lighten it, but it just makes you want to crawl under the couch cushions and never come out.

Tom stands, quiet, and heads for the kitchen. You don’t look at him—if you do, the guilt will spill across your face like neon letters flashing cheater, traitor, thief of best friends’ boyfriends.

You mumble something about needing the bathroom and stumble off. The second the door clicks, you collapse in front of the toilet. It’s violent, ugly—the kind of throwing up that leaves your arms shaking, forehead damp. You grip the seat like it’s a lifeline. God, you hoped it wasn’t this again. You just wanted one day. One normal day with friends. But after what you’ve done, how dare you even call Veronica that anymore?

The door creaks. You snap your head up, hair plastered to your face, and—of course—it’s him. Tom. He’s balancing a steaming mug of tea, and when he unzips his hoodie you spot the snacks he’s smuggled in like contraband. Crackers, chips, even a candy bar. The dumbest, sweetest heist.

"I know this is risky," he hisses, crouching down. His voice is sharp but desperate. "You’re not answering my calls, not opening the packages—do you even know I bought a crib? And baby clothes? You just keep shutting me out."

You want to snap back, tell him to stop, to leave, to stop making this harder. But your throat burns too much for words.

He grabs a tissue and, without hesitation, wipes the mess from your mouth. It’s tender, almost domestic—like you’re already his, like this is already normal.

"Here," he mutters, pulling the crackers free. "Please eat something."

You shake your head. Food’s the last thing you want. Loneliness is what eats at you, not hunger.

Tom exhales, low and frustrated, before shifting closer. His knee brushes yours, deliberate, like he’s done being careful. His eyes search yours, and suddenly you can’t breathe.

"I want to be in the baby’s life," he says, quieter now, like he’s confessing instead of arguing. "And in yours too… if you’ll let me."

And there it is. The thing you’ve been trying not to want. His voice pulls you straight back to that appointment, the way he’d stalked your schedule just to be there. His face when the sonogram lit up, the shaky laugh that escaped him when he saw the heartbeat flicker. For a moment, you’d believed it could be real.

But then—muffled through the bathroom door—Veronica laughs at something on the TV. And the bubble bursts. You’re left on the cold tile, his warmth right beside you, your guilt filling every inch of air.