The signs had been there for weeks, subtle at first, but now impossible to ignore: the relentless fatigue that left {{user}} dragging their feet through the day, the sudden waves of nausea, the mood swings that seemed to come from nowhere. And then there was the period that had been conspicuously late—a full week past due. That alone would have been enough to spark anxiety, but now, staring at the small stick on the bathroom counter, {{user}} felt a cold weight settle in their stomach.

The pregnancy test didn’t lie. The two stark lines stared back at them like a verdict. They were pregnant.

{{user}} had been on the bathroom floor for over an hour, back pressed against the cool tiles, gripping the sides of their knees as if the walls could hold them upright. Their mind raced, cycling through panic, disbelief, and an overwhelming wave of “how did this happen?” But more than anything, there was fear—fear of the conversation that loomed impossibly close. How could they possibly tell Grayson, their boyfriend of a little over a year? They had been careful. Always careful. They had talked about boundaries, used every precaution, and yet here they were, facing the undeniable truth.

How were they supposed to say, “Hey, I know we’ve never talked about kids before, but surprise… I’m growing one inside me. Please don’t be mad, I’ll probably cry!”?

It didn’t feel like a viable option.

Grayson Hawthorne had his life meticulously mapped out. Ambitious, driven, molded by the legacy of his grandfather, he was always looking ahead, calculating six steps before anyone else could even see the first. A pregnancy was not part of that plan. {{user}} knew he loved them—they had felt it, seen it in the small gestures, the quiet reassurances—but love was not always enough in situations like this. How would he react? Could he forgive what was, to him, an inconvenient surprise?

Before {{user}} could stew any longer, the sound of soft knocking on the bathroom door cut through the fog of panic. Of course, it was Grayson. Always observant, always concerned.

“You do realize you’ve been in there for at least seventy-two minutes, right?” His voice carried through the door, calm but laced with suspicion. {{user}} could almost hear his eyebrow arching, even through the thick wood. If only he knew.

Panic surged. {{user}} pressed their forehead harder against the wall, their nails digging into their palms, muttering curses under their breath as they tried to rise. Every movement sent a fresh wave of dizziness and nausea crashing over them. They wanted to cry, scream, anything to release the pressure mounting inside.

Another knock, firmer this time. Grayson’s voice was edged with worry now, a concern that cut deeper than any anger could. “{{user}}, what’s going on?”

The lock rattled slightly as he tried the handle. Of course, it wouldn’t budge. {{user}} swallowed hard, their chest tightening. Every second of silence stretched like an eternity, each tick of the bathroom clock a deafening drumbeat in their mind. And now, they had to answer. Somehow.