A sharp inhale. Then his arms slid around my waist, one big hand splaying possessively over my stomach like he was already protecting what might be growing there.
“Fuck,” he breathed against my hair. “Okay.”
He reached past me without letting go, scanning the shelves with that intense focus he got when he was in mission mode. He grabbed a pink box — digital readout, early detection, two tests — then added a second identical one, and for good measure a third that promised results in one minute.
“No chances,” he muttered, dropping them into the basket he’d snagged from the end cap. “We’re doing this right.”
I huffed a nervous laugh, leaning back into him.
“Bossy britches.”
His mouth brushed my ear.
“You have no idea.”
We paid quickly — cash, because Ben still hated using cards in small places — and were back in the Camaro in under five minutes. He didn’t start the engine right away. Just turned to me, eyes dark and blazing with something fierce and hopeful and a little terrified.
“Home?” he asked.
I nodded, throat tight.
“Home.”
Ben didn’t speak the rest of the drive, but his hand stayed glued to my thigh, thumb rubbing slow, possessive circles like he was already staking claim on whatever might be growing inside me.The Camaro ate up the miles, crimson paint flashing under the streetlights as dusk settled over Stonewood. Ashgrove House loomed ahead, windows glowing warm against the dark, and for the first time it really hit me: this was our home. No more lodge shadows, no more games. Just us.
He parked in the garage and killed the engine, but neither of us moved. The paper bag from the pharmacy sat in my lap like it weighed fifty pounds.
“You ready?” he asked, voice low.
“No,” I admitted. “But let’s do it anyway.”
We went in through the side door, straight to the downstairs powder room off the kitchen, the closest one, no stairs to climb on shaky legs. Ben set the bag on the marble counter and pulled out the boxes, lining them up like ammunition. Three different brands, all digital, all promising answers in three minutes or less.
I took them one by one, hands trembling just enough that he noticed and covered them with his own, steadying me. He didn’t hover in the bathroom — gave me the space I needed — but he was right outside the door, back against the wall, arms crossed like he was holding himself together by force.
I capped the last stick, washed my hands, and opened the door. He straightened instantly, eyes searching my face.
“Three minutes,” I said.
He nodded once, sharp, then pulled me into the hallway and backed me gently against the wall. His forehead dropped to mine, scarred cheek brushing my skin, breath warm and uneven.
“Whatever it says,” he murmured, “we’re good, Chrissy. You and me. We’re already good.”
But his hands were shaking too, fingers laced through mine, squeezing tight.
We set the timer on his phone for 180 seconds that felt like 180 years. We didn’t sit. We paced the wide hallway instead, orbiting each other like twin moons. He dragged a hand through his hair, muttering curses under his breath. I chewed my thumbnail raw, heart hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears.
When the alarm chimed, we both froze.
“You look,” I whispered.
He shook his head.
“Together.”
We walked into the bathroom side by side. The three tests sat in a neat row on the counter, face-up, merciless.
PREGNANT
