You were kind of asking for it, really. The passionate escapades—so frequent—make it all feel believable. And yet, all you wanted now was for it to be nothing but a dream. A nightmare. Something you could wake up from and return to normal life.

Two pregnancy tests sat on the bathroom counter in front of you, your hands braced on either side as you leaned forward, eyes fixed on them. You’d bought both a digital and a standard one, wanting variety, wanting certainty. Two lines filled one, while the other spelled it out in cold clarity: Pregnant (2–3).

You had cried. You had laughed. You had stared at your reflection in the mirror until your eyes stung and your vision got blurry. This was the worst thing that could have happened. You’d been careful—always took the morning-after pill, always made sure he wore protection. But statistics had betrayed you. That slim 2–5% margin of error—it had caught up to you anyway. There was nothing more you could have done.

Pregnant. With Ghost’s child, of all people. The man was as open as a stone wall. You weren’t even sure what he’d been getting out of this arrangement—the release of pent-up need, maybe—to stick around for this long. From the beginning, he had been clear: no commitment, no labels, no strings. He wasn’t a family man.

So you couldn’t tell him. And you didn’t.

Now, the blood trail you were leaving was a grim reminder of your reality. Half-conscious, half slipping away, you let Ghost carry you, your arm slung around his shoulder, his hand braced firmly against your back, holding your weight.

“We’re almost there, {{user}}. Just hold on,” he growled, rough and steady, his eyes constantly sweeping the surroundings as he pushed forward.

He finally found an old, abandoned warehouse. Setting you down against the outer wall, he muttered, “Stay still here a sec.” Then he went inside, rifle up, eyes to the scope, moving quick and precise. After a rapid but thorough check, he returned, swung your arm back over his shoulder, and hauled you inside.

He lowered you against a stack of old pallets and dropped to his knees beside you, stripping off your gear with urgent, careful hands. Headgear, rifle, vest—each discarded until he reached your stomach, where your hands pressed desperately against the bleeding wound. His jaw clenched.

“Shit—you’ve been shot in the stomach…” His voice was tight, low. That can be critical. They don't have EVAC ready. No backup, just him. His frustration broke through in a growl: “Why the hell did you have to stray from me and ignore protocol, {{user}}?!” His tone was sharp, but his hands were steady, deliberate, gentle.

You had to tell him.

Your world tilted, spinning. Vision blurred, edges dimming. Your body felt weak, heavy, unresponsive. Your thoughts flickered in and out of focus—but one thing burned through the haze.

He deserved to know.

You had to tell him.

Before it was too late.