The word still sent a thrill through me. Mrs. Taylor. Harlow Taylor. Owen’s wife.
I took a breath. Then another.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“Yeah?”
“No. But I’m going to look anyway.”
He grinned, that crooked smile that had been undoing me since I was fourteen years old. “That’s my girl.”
He took my hand, lacing our fingers together, and we walked toward the bathroom together. Our footsteps were quiet on the hardwood, moving in sync. When we reached the doorway, I hesitated.
The test was sitting on the counter where I’d left it, face down. White plastic. Two possible futures.
“We look together,” Owen said quietly. “On three?”
I nodded.
We stepped up to the counter, standing side by side, our reflections staring back at us in the mirror. I looked pale. Terrified. Owen looked... steady. Like an anchor in a storm.
“Ready?” he asked.
I squeezed his hand. “Ready.”
“One.”
My heart was hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears.
“Two.”
Owen’s thumb traced circles on the back of my hand.
“Three.”
We looked down together.
One line.
“I’m not pregnant,” I whispered.
I waited for the emotion to hit. Relief? Disappointment? Some combination of both?
What came instead was... peace. A quiet settling in my chest, like the universe saying, not yet, but someday.
Owen turned to me, his free hand coming up to cup my cheek. He pressed a kiss to my forehead.
“Are you okay?” he murmured against my skin.
“Yeah.” I tilted my head back to look at him.
“Good.”
We stood there for a moment, the test forgotten on the counter. Then a thought occurred to me. “Are you disappointed?”
His brows drew together. “About the test?”
“No.” I bit my lip. “About marrying me.”
