I was just about to crash when I heard the knock on the front door. My parents are out, some fancy anniversary dinner or something, I couldn’t care less — but it means that I have to open the door.

I swing it open and there she is. {{user}}. Jacket pulled right, hair falling loose, cheeks red from the cold.

“Podge…” she starts, voice low, unsure.

I stare. My chest thunders. Something’s wrong. I can feel it in every bone.

“You… you okay?” I ask, but the words sound hollow. I let her in before running a rough hand through my curls. My head is spinning, because after that night at the party… I don’t know what to expect.

She had stormed in, yelling at me like she’d swallowed fire. Furious that I’d been smoking pot with Joey and Alec, knowing it was dangerous, knowing I shouldn’t touch it — and I had laughed it off. Thought she was overreacting. Thought she would call later and we’d figure things out.

She didn’t. And I didn’t, either.

It all went from zero to a hundred, both of us furious in just seconds, and I was feeling like I’d lost her already.

Weeks of silence followed. Not a word. And I’ve been going insane trying to figure out if I’d fucked it all up beyond repair.

Now, here she is. And I can feel it: her trembling, the way she bites her lip, the hesitation in her eyes.

“What is it?” I ask, voice sharper than I intend. Panic lacing every word. “What happened?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the floor, twisting her fingers. My chest tightens.

“Why… why didn’t you talk to me after the party?” I push. “Was I… was I that much of a prick that night?”

Her gaze flicks up, sharp and pained. “You don’t get it, Podge. I was scared. I was scared for you!”

My heart jumps. “Scared for me? What the hell are you on about?”

“I just—” She swallows, voice trembling. “I hate seeing you do that shit. Weed. Whatever. You know how much it messes you up. And it’s terrible for the baby, so I—“

The baby? What baby?

Her words falter. I feel my chest tighten more. She exhales shakily, her eyes glimmering. “I didn’t know how to… I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know if you’d even stay.”

Something twists in my gut. Her words hit me in a way I can’t breathe through. “What… what do you mean?” I ask, even though I away know what she’s about to say.

She steps towards me. Her hands find mine, trembling. “Podge…” Her lips quiver. “…I’m pregnant.”

The world tilts. My chest caves, heart hammering like it’s trying to burst out. Weeks of silence, of me wondering why she’d shut me out, the worry, the anger, the guilt — it all crashes in at once.

I stumble back a step, hand to my forehead, struggling to speak. “…You’re… what?”

She nods, small, terrified. “I didn’t know how to tell you… not after the fight, not after you… not while you were—”

I clutch at the edge of the wall, knuckles white, words failing me. “…Shit.” That’s all I manage. Shit, shit, shit.

I sink down onto the couch, head in my hands, shaking, angry at myself, panicked, terrified, and all I can think is: I’ve got to fix this. Somehow. I can’t lose her. I can’t screw this up.