I like sex. I like power games. I don’t like hurting people in nonconsensual ways.
My life is too complex for traditional dating, so I was relieved when Sage was firm about not exchanging numbers. Keeps everything cleaner, just how I like it.
I tip my head against the glass wall behind me. This went perfectly. It’s a pity I can’t find more women like Sage. She makes me feel like everything is right with the world.
5
SAGE
Something is wrong.
I know it before I admit it. I know it before I open the calendar. I know it in the way my body feels slightly out of sync, like I’m moving half a second behind myself.
I’m spotting Marissa on a heavy squat when a wave of nausea rolls through me so hard I have to lock my jaw to keep from gagging. The gym smells like rubber flooring and sweat and citrus disinfectant—normal smells, everyday smells—but today they feel sharp and invasive. I step back as she racks the bar and force a smile.
“You good?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say automatically. “Didn’t eat enough.”
That’s what I tell everyone. That’s what I tell myself.
But by the time my last morning client leaves, I’m sitting alone on a plyo box staring at nothing while my stomach churns like I swallowed a washing machine. My sports bra feels too tight.My leggings feel suffocating. My whole body feels… wrong. Just plain wrong.
Am I coming down with the flu? I got my shot. That’s the last thing I need. But it’s been a quiet flu season—spring usually is. At the gym, we’re always the second to know. Second behind the school system, usually.
A sinking suspicion nauseates me further.
I pull out my phone and open my cycle tracker. I blink. Then I blink again. Three weeks late. Not stress late. Not jet lag late. Not “I miscounted” late.
Three weeks.
I start doing math like my life depends on it. Connor and I hadn’t slept together in two months before Ireland. Two full months of distance and avoidance and curated affection for the camera. By the time we boarded that flight, we were barely touching.
My breath leaves me in a rush.No. No, that’s impossible.
Except it isn’t.
I think about the plane. The hum of the engines. The way the cabin lights dimmed. The way Ronan’s teeth felt at the back of my neck.
It was one time. One reckless, suspended-from-reality time.
I grab my jacket and bag and tell the front desk I need to step out. There’s an urgent care clinic two blocks away. The walk feels surreal. Every step feels heavier than it should.
Inside, the waiting room is fluorescent and beige and cruelly normal. I fill out paperwork with shaking hands.
Reason for visit?
I stare at the blank line before writing it.Possible pregnancy.
Seeing the words makes my chest tighten so hard I can barely swallow.
This cannot be happening. But something inside me already knows. When I take the test, my brain is already saying, “Pink or blue?” But I shake out of it, finish peeing, and wash up.
The nurse comes back faster than I’m prepared for. “It’s positive.”
The word doesn’t echo. It doesn’t shatter. It just lands and sits there between us.
Positive.
