The pregnancy test.
“You forgot this,” he says quietly.
For a second, all I can hear is blood roaring in my ears.
He knows.
He knows.
He knows.
I take half a step back on instinct, and his expression changes instantly, something sharp and pained flashing through it.
“No,” I say too fast, too breathless. “Jake, I can explain.”
His brows draw together, but I’m already talking. The words spill out in a panicked rush before he can stop me.
“I didn’t plan this. I swear to God, I didn’t. I took my pills, I always take my pills, and I didn’t want to— I would never try to trap you, Jake, I would never—”
“Talia.”
My voice keeps going anyway, wild and fast and humiliating.
“I know what you said about kids and I know this is the worst possible thing and I know it probably looks bad, but I didn’t do this on purpose, I swear, I swear—”
“Talia, stop.”
He steps inside and closes the door behind him without taking his eyes off me.
I’m still shaking my head, still trying to defend myself against accusations he hasn’t even made.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, because apparently that’s the only thing I know how to be tonight. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Then he’s in front of me.
He cups my face in both hands.
“Talia,” he says again, and this time his voice is low and steady enough to cut through the panic. “Stop.”
I do.
Not because I’m calm.
Because his hands are warm and familiar and devastatingly gentle, and for one suspended second all I can do is stare at him and wait for him to destroy me.
He looks wrecked. Like someone gutted him from the inside.
“Listen to me,” he says.
I swallow hard.
His thumbs brush under my eyes, catching tears I didn’t even realize were there.
Then he says the last thing I expect.
“I love you.”
The room actually goes silent.
