It was a rainy Thursday—most students had rushed home, the hallways nearly empty. You were heading back to your locker, hoodie soaked at the shoulders, one hand instinctively resting over your stomach. Seven weeks. Still small. Still your secret.

You didn’t hear the footsteps behind you.

“I knew something was off about you lately.”

You turned, startled—and there he was.

Miles Orion. Smug, sharp-eyed, and the last person you wanted to see. The guy who used to make fun of your voice cracking during debates, who once poured soda in your backpack “for fun.”

Now, he was looking right at your stomach.

“I won’t tell,” he said casually, pushing off the locker. “But only if you agree to my terms.”

You stiffened. “What terms?”

He leaned in, lips curling. “Let me be the father.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he murmured, “but if you say yes, I’ll protect that little secret like it’s mine. You’ll be safe. Just say the word.”