𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You weren’t gone long. Just a quick trip to the store, grabbing milk, coffee, and whatever else Ezra had scribbled on the back of a receipt. The kind of errand that felt ordinary, especially after the quiet week you’d both had. You didn’t expect anything to change in that half hour.

But upstairs, while you were out, Ezra had stepped out of the shower, hair dripping, towel hanging low on his hips. He ran a hand through his damp curls, reaching for the familiar tin of hair cream that usually sat by the sink. Except it wasn’t there. The counter was neat now — too neat — all his things lined up differently since you’d “reorganized.” He smiled a little at the thought. You did that sometimes, moved things around because it made the space feel new.

He opened the first drawer, then the second. It was all your stuff — skincare, makeup, that candle you loved that smelled like vanilla and sugar. He dug through it, muttering to himself, until his hand brushed something at the back of the drawer. Small, light plastic. A shape that didn’t belong.

When he pulled it out, his hand froze.

A pregnancy test.

A positive pregnancy test.

His heartbeat stuttered. The steam from the shower still clung to his skin, but a chill ran down his spine anyway.

It didn’t make sense. He just stared at it, at that faint but unmistakable plus sign. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t something left behind. It was recent — it had to be.

His first thought wasn’t anger. It was disbelief, confusion, a million questions that tangled together until he couldn’t find one clear one to ask. Why didn’t she tell me?

Ezra dropped the towel and tugged on the first pair of sweatpants he could find, moving almost on autopilot. The test stayed in his hand the entire time. When he finally sat on the couch, he set it carefully on the coffee table in front of him — like it was something fragile, something that might explode if he looked away too long.

He sat there for a while, elbows on his knees, staring.

By the time you came through the door, arms full of grocery bags, the house felt thick with silence. You were humming softly, calling his name without realizing how tense the air was.

“Hey, I got the coffee you like—”

Your voice broke mid-sentence when you saw it. The little white test sitting right in front of him.

You stopped in the doorway. The grocery bags suddenly feeling like they weighed a hundred pounds. The color drained from your face as your eyes darted from the test to Ezra.

He didn’t look angry, not exactly. He looked… hurt. Confused. Like someone had taken the ground out from under him.

Neither of you spoke for a long time. The silence felt louder than anything you could have said.

Finally, Ezra’s voice broke through it — quiet, careful, but heavy, his eyes never leaving the test.

“…why didn’t you tell me?”