My focus was on the grout lines between the tiles. They were uneven. Imperfect.
Alfie was holding my hand. His grip was bone-crushing. Kit was breathing in a steady rhythm, trying to regulate the room.
"Time," Zia whispered.
We turned.
She was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. The stick was on the counter.
She wasn't looking at it. She was looking at us.
"It says yes," she said.
The world stopped spinning. The axis shifted. The center of gravity moved from the three of us to the woman sitting on the porcelain throne in an oversized t-shirt.
Alfie made a sound that wasn't a word. It was a joy-noise. He dropped to his knees in front of her, burying his face in her lap, wrapping his arms around her waist as if to physically hold her together.
"A pup?" he sobbed. "A fox-cub?"
"Maybe a litter," Kit murmured, moving to stand behind her, his hands resting heavily on her shoulders. He looked dazed. He looked like he had just won a war he didn't know he was fighting. "Triple match. High potency."
I walked to the counter. I looked at the stick.
PREGNANT was there in neat digital lettering.
The test was digital. Binary. Yes or no. One or zero.
It was a one.
I looked at Zia. She was stroking Alfie's hair, looking up at Kit, but her eyes found mine.
"The Rider," she said, her voice wobbling. "Does the Rider cover this?"
"The Rider covers safety," I said. My vision was blurring. I realized, remotely, that I was crying. "Clause 8. Family Leave. Caretaker Support. It's all there, Zia. I wrote it into the code."
"We're going to need a bigger bus," she said, a laugh bubbling up.
"I will design it," I promised. "I will build you a nursery on wheels with HEPA filters and soundproofing and suspension that feels like floating."
She reached out her hand.
I took it. I kissed the palm, then the wrist, right over the fox tail tattoo.
"We are going to be a disaster," she said, tears spilling over. "Three dads. Touring. A baby."
"Controlled chaos," I corrected. "We have the data. We have the team."
"We have the pack," Kit said, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.
Alfie lifted his head, his face wet with tears, grinning that blinding, sunrise grin. "We have a drummer for the rhythm, a singer for the noise, and a tech for the logic. And we have a Producer to tell us what to do."
He pressed a kiss to her stomach, right through the t-shirt.
"Hey in there," Alfie whispered to the cluster of cells that had just rewritten our entire future. "Copy that? You're safe. We've got the perimeter."
Zia looked at me. The panic was gone. The sickness was mere background noise.
"Euan," she said. "Sanctuary Sound. The studio."
