You’ve been keeled over three mornings straight, hurling into the sink before your feet even bother to hit the floor properly. The air reeks of mint gum and ginger tea, a failed attempt to patch over the wreckage of your insides. You keep the saltines tucked behind boxes in the cabinet, as if hiding them will muffle the truth knocking at the back of your throat. Elliot’s not stupid—he’s got eyes, and lately, they’ve been glued to the small pieces you keep dropping. The way you wince when the stovetop crackles.

The way your hands twitch away from his when he reaches out. Your body running hot as hell, but you won’t shed his hoodie, sleeves swallowed past your wrists even though sweat’s blotting the fabric. Elliot’s been counting the degrees and still coming up short. He’s cooked lunch five nights running, trying to rule himself out, trying not to believe he’s the cause, because that'd be easier, wouldn’t it? A bad recipe. An undercooked egg. But a maybe keeps on pressing into the space between you, and it’s not a stomach bug.

Elliot's been patient. Wiping your forehead with a damp cloth. Asking without really asking. Folding blankets, buying crackers, brushing knuckles along your spine until you pretend to sleep. But it’s the pretending that eats at him—that thing behind your eyes every time you catch his. You won’t say it. Won’t even let him close enough to guess out loud. Which leaves him stranded in his own thoughts, which have never been kind.

So now he’s standing in the doorway, watching you breathe shallowly into the crook of your arm, stomach clutched, hoodie zipped up to your throat, and all he can hear in his head is: What if you’re not sick? What if there’s a Plan B? Elliot doesn’t want to jinx it. Doesn’t want to let that question take root, but it’s already gagging him from the inside out. And still, he’s holding a bowl of soup he made with antsy hands, kneeling down beside you, rubbing slow circles into your back. Then—voice dry, half a laugh, half a panic-attack:

“Am I about to be a dad?"