We sink onto the bed together. I keep my weight off her, propped on one elbow while my other hand traces lazy patterns along her side. Over her ribs, along her hip, back up to cup her face.
She kisses me like she’s trying to memorize the moment. Her tongue slides against mine, soft and seeking, and I let myself get lost in it.
My hand drifts higher. Along her throat, feeling her pulse jump under my fingers. Across her collarbone. Down to rest just above her breast.
She makes a small sound of encouragement. Arches slightly into my touch.
I cup her breast through her shirt, gentle pressure like always. She responds immediately, kissing me deeper, her breath coming faster.
Then she gasps. Sharp. Pulls back slightly, her face twisting.
I freeze. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, just—” She touches her chest, adjusting her position. “They’ve been really sore lately. Like, more than usual.”
“Since when?”
“I don’t know. A week? Maybe two?” She tries to smile but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Probably just my period coming or something.”
Except her period should have come already. I don’t track her cycle like some creep, but I’ve been with enough women to notice patterns. The way she gets quieter a few days before, the heating pad she keeps in her room, the chocolate cravings Titan teases her about.
Haven’t seen any of that lately.
“You feel okay otherwise?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.
“Yeah, fine. I guess I’m tired.” She yawns like she’s proving the point. “Been working a lot at the shop.”
Tired. Sore breasts. And now that I’m looking at her there’s something different about her face. Fuller, maybe.
I’ve seen this before. Three times, actually. Once with a girl in Kandahar who showed up at the clinic six weeks gone. Twice stateside with women who weren’t trying to get pregnant and panicked when the test came back positive.
The signs are always the same. Always subtle at first. Breast tenderness hits early, usually before they even miss a period. Then the exhaustion. The nausea that comes and goes.
My brain starts doing math I don’t want it to do. When did this arrangement start? Right after the wedding. When did we stop being careful? We were never careful. All three of us finishing inside her like we had some kind of claim to stake.
Jesus Christ.
“Ghost?” Her voice pulls me back. “You okay? You’re staring.”
“I’m fine.” I kiss her forehead, gentle. “You should sleep.” I brush hair away from her face. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
She studies my face like she’s trying to figure out what shifted. But exhaustion wins and she nods, curling into my side.
I hold her while her breathing evens out, going slow and deep. My hand rests on her hip and I try not to think about what might be happening inside her body right now.
Might be nothing. Women get sore breasts for lots of reasons. Hormones fluctuate. Stress does weird things to the body.
But I’ve been trained to read patterns, and I can read one here.
If she’s pregnant—and that’s a big if—then we’ve got bigger problems than I thought. Because paternity is going to be a question. And depending on when it happened, there’s a timeline that includes more than just the three of us.
Marcus Stone forced himself on her the night before the wedding. I don’t know the details, but I know she was with him.
My jaw clenches. I force myself to relax before she feels the tension.
Not the time. Not the conversation to have when I don’t even know if I’m right.
But tomorrow I’m paying attention. To what she eats, how she looks in the morning, whether the nausea comes at all. And if my suspicions are confirmed, then we’re going to have a very different kind of conversation than any of us planned for.
