I don’t love that my mind goes there. I don’t love that I have to think about timing and doctors and what-ifs when all I want is to keep her smiling like she’s been doing lately. But we need to know. She needs to see someone either way. Not because I’m scared. Not because I’m not ready.
Because I am.
That’s the part that sneaks up on me when I’m not looking. The truth of it. I’m ready for whatever this turns into. I’m ready to stand in front of anything if it means she’s safe.
I just don’t know if she is yet.
So I plan to talk to her tonight. Calm. Straight. No pressure. Just the facts and my heart laid out where she can see it.
I’m picking her up from Bella’s.
Girls’ day, apparently. Bella. Brooke. Ansley. Movies and snacks and something about gay hockey players and a book calledHeated Rivalry. I don’t get it. I don’t try to get it. All I know is every time she comes back from watching that shit, she’s smiling like she’s got secrets and giggling under her breath.
And yeah. She comes back wet and ready for me.
I’m not above admitting patterns.
If it makes her happy, I don’t give a fuck what she watches.
I pull up outside Bella’s place and cut the engine. The porch light is on. Laughter spills through the door when it opens, bright and easy and hers. Bri steps out a second later, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, eyes lighting up when she sees me like I’m the best part of her night.
That look still hits me square in the chest.
She climbs into the truck, leans over, and kisses me like she’s been thinking about it for a while. Slow. Familiar. Promising.
“Good day?” I ask.
She grins. “Very.”
I pull back onto the road, one hand on the wheel, the other finding her thigh without even thinking about it. She rests her palm over mine. Easy. Like this is exactly where we belong.
The words sit on my tongue the whole drive home. I don’t rush them. I don’t shove them out wrong. When I finally speak, my voice is steady.
“Hey, baby.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
She doesn’t tense. Doesn’t pull away. Just turns toward me, all attention, all trust.
I tell her. About the timing. About the doctor. About how this isn’t fear talking, it’s care. I tell her she doesn’t have to decide anything tonight or tomorrow or ever on anyone else’s timeline but her own.
I’m halfway through it when she goes quiet.
Not bad-quiet. Not shutting-down quiet. Just… thoughtful.
Then she reaches into her purse.
I watch her hands because I always do. Because they tell me everything before her mouth does.
She pulls out a small pink box and holds it up between us like it weighs something.
My chest tightens.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “We need to take a test and check.”
I blink at it, then at her. My brain stalls for a second, like it needs to reboot.
