Minutes pass, slow and cruel. And still—I don’t say a word. Because if I speak, I might break this moment. Or worse… break her.
I press my lips to her temple. She's it. My whole world. If I lost her—reallylost her—I don’t think I’d know how to go on.
The timer goes off.
We both rise slowly. She grabs one test. I grab the other.
Big, clear words blink across both screens:
Not Pregnant. Not Pregnant.
I stare. And my heart sinks—quietly, like it’s trying not to make a scene.
I glance at Stella.
There’s no relief in her eyes. No smile. Just this raw, quiet fear.
Like she’s realizing what I’m realizing.
This isn’t areset. It's not a moment to breathe easy.
It’s a crack in the foundation.
A silent confirmation of the distance that’s growing between us. Not because she doesn’t love me. But because we want different things. Things that can’t be compromised. And I don’t know if love alone can hold us together.
God,I hope it can.
But I can’t help wondering—isthis the moment the threads begin to unravel?
Stella
Summer came and went in a blink. The warm air that once clung to our skin has cooled into crisp fall mornings, making the windows fog and my bones ache in the best way. It’s the season of soft layers and cinnamon-scented everything.
I roll over and reach for Donovan, but the bed is empty. His side still holds the echo of his warmth, but he’s not there. I toss the covers off, my feet sinking into the plush carpet as I pad toward the bathroom.
The shower's running.
I nudge the door open and lean against the frame. Through the glass, I see him—water sliding down his skin, soap trailing behind. His hands move in a steady rhythm, lathering down his chest and over the ridges of muscle along his stomach. I watch him without a word.
It took a while for things to feelnormalagain. Not broken—but bent. We didn't argue, didn't shout, but silence settled over us like fog. Thick. Heavy. Waiting. Neither of us knew how to talk about the future without triggering a minefield of what-ifs.About family. About the shape of what our life might become if we wanted different things.
But here we are—October 3rd—and somehow, we’re happy. Happier than we’ve been in months.
Today we’re picking up a few more fall decorations and heading to a college football game. His team’s playing in Virginia, and he’s practically buzzing about it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this excited outside of sex or winning championships. The glow on his face—God, it’s addictive.
Later, as we walk through town, the leaves crunch beneath our boots. I glance over at my husband, reallylookat him. Blonde hair pushed back, blue eyes soft with laughter, that sharp, kissable jawline flexing when he smiles. His arms stretch the sleeves of his hoodie, muscles taut and roped. People stare—womenstare—especially when we’re on the bike, but I just lean into him a little more.
He’s mine. This man is mine.
We’re steps away from the store when my phone rings—an unknown Arizona number.
I answer on instinct. “Hello?”
A man’s voice, calm and unfamiliar: “Good morning, is this Miss Stella Carrington?”
“This isMrs.Stella Carrington. Who is this?” I ask, suspicion flickering behind my words.
I don’t remember what he said next.
