The bass from the club’s speakers vibrated through the cracked tile of the bathroom stall, rattling Treyton’s bones like a second heartbeat. He braced one hand against the wall, the other clutching his phone—the screen glaring up at him with two pink lines and a single, damning word: 

PREGNANT. 

Treyton’s breath hitched. The half-finished vodka cranberry in his other hand suddenly felt like a prop in some shitty rom-com. This wasn’t happening. Not after one reckless night with you—{{user}} fucking Whitmore, the silver-eyed alpha with a trust fund and a reputation for leaving before sunrise. 

A knock shattered the moment. 

“Yo, you done in there? People are pissing in the sink out here!” 

Treyton snarled, his omega instincts flaring. “Fuck off—” His voice cracked. Shit. He could already feel the heat creeping up his neck, the telltale prickling behind his eyes. No. No way. He was not crying in a club bathroom over some bougie alpha’s mistake. 

He slammed the test into his jacket pocket and yanked open the stall door, nearly colliding with a beta in a sequined bodysuit. They took one look at his face and wisely stepped aside. 

The club air hit him like a wall—sweat, pheromones, and the sticky-sweet stench of cheap perfume. Treyton’s stomach lurched. Oh god. Was that… morning sickness? At 2 AM? 

His phone buzzed. A notification from his heat-tracking app: 

CYCLE DELAYED: 17 DAYS. 

“Fuck.” 

Then—because the universe had a sick sense of humor—his screen lit up with an incoming call. 

{{user}} Whitemore.