“Joy,” he said carefully.
My stomach tightened, instinctively bracing.
“I need to ask you something.”
I nodded, suddenly very still. “Okay.”
“Are you on birth control?”
The question landed like a cold splash—not because it was wrong, but because it was real.
Because I hadn’t been.
Because I hadn’t needed to be.
Because for years, sex had felt like an event that would happen in some distant future version of my life, a version where I had certainty and control and time to prepare.
In the heat of this day, I hadn’t prepared.
I’d surrendered.
I swallowed. “No.”
Micah didn’t flinch.
But he went still in a way I was beginning to recognize. The way he got when something mattered and he needed to think fast without showing it.
“When was your last cycle?” he asked, voice controlled.
I told him.
His gaze stayed on my face while his mind did calculations I couldn’t see.
“And we didn’t use anything,” he said, quiet and factual.
“No,” I whispered.
“And I … didn’t pull out.”
My cheeks burned, but my voice stayed steady. “I know.”
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
I waited for fear to hit me.
It didn’t—not the way I expected.
Instead, something rose in my chest that felt almost like … clarity.
Micah watched my expression change and seemed to misunderstand what he saw.
“Joy,” he said, voice lower. “I’m not—I’m not trying to scare you.”
“I know,” I said quickly. “You’re being responsible.”
His mouth tightened. “Yeah. I’m trying.”
Trying.
