Nico must have—
My mouth goes dry.
I step closer like I’m approaching a live wire, and my fingers hover for a second before I flip the clasp open.
Please.
Please be there.
My hand dips inside and closes around the plastic.
I pull it out.
The pregnancy test.
Still there.
Still positive.
My stomach rolls, and I shove it back into the purse so fast the clasp clicks loudly in the quiet room.
I stand there, staring at the purse like it’s going to tell me whether he saw it.
Whether he knows.
Whether Bianca told him.
She wouldn’t.
Guilt hits me, sharp and ridiculous.
Because I know and he doesn’t. It’s his baby too, and he has the right to know.
I swallow hard and force myself to move.
I grab clothes from the dresser—not that I have much to pick from, just something soft and clean—and change quickly, my hands clumsy. I stop and stare at myself again, like I’m waiting for the panic to settle.
It doesn’t.
So I leave it in my chest and walk out anyway.
Then quickly walk back to grab the test and slip it into the pocket of my hoodie.
Then I walk out again. Down the stairs. Toward the smell of food.
Toward Nico.
Toward the fact that my purse was moved, my test is still there, and I have no idea what he knows.
I reach the bottom step and pause, fingers curling around the banister.
Then I make my feet move, because guilt doesn’t change anything.
And neither does hiding.
I follow the smell into the kitchen like it’s pulling me by the nose.
The house is bright in the morning. Sunlight on pale wood floors. The counters are clean, and Nico is at the stove in sweats and a dark T-shirt, broad shoulders filling the space as if he belongs in it.
