Days pass.
He doesn’t come back.
I don’t look for him. But every time the door hisses open at the bar, my heart kicks like it’s trying to bolt out of my chest. Every tall shadow makes my throat tighten. Every deep voice makes my fingers tremble just enough that I blame it on caffeine.
“You’re twitchier than a spooked dratha,” Jorla mutters as we restock bottles. “You knocked over the bourbon shelf twice.”
“Gravity’s got a grudge,” I snap, then wince. “Sorry.”
She eyes me. “You sick?”
I shake my head.
But Ifeelsick.
Not always. Just sometimes. Mornings, mostly. When the air smells too strong, or my stomach turns at the scent of fried krelln strips. I snap at customers. Snap at myself. Can’t tell if it’s stress or hormones or some deeper, nastier kind of ache I haven’t faced yet.
Then one night—about a week after the storage room mistake—I sit down to eat and my stomach rebels so hard I barely make it to the fresher in time.
My knees hit tile. My dinner hits the bowl.
And I know. I justknow.
The test is standard issue. Cheap. Discreet. I buy it from a kiosk on the walk home, tucked between a vape cartridge dispenser and a vending machine selling fake engagement rings.
Back in my room, I rip open the foil, shove the stick under my tongue, and pace like a madwoman while the timer ticks down.
I don’t pray. I don’t hope.
I just wait.
When the screen flashes green, I stare at it.
Pregnant.
That word looks like a gunshot. Sharp. Loud. Fatal.
I laugh. A tiny, broken sound. “Well, fuck me sideways.”
Half-Vakutan.
I run through the implications like a security drill. Genetics. Gestation. Birth complications. Cultural implications. Legal complications. I don’t even know his surname. I don’t know his squad ID. He didn’t even leave a way to contact him.
Assuming Iwantedto.
Which I don’t.
I shouldn’t.
But still…
My hands shake as I set the test down. Not from fear. Fromrage.
Because he left without a word. Because I let myself get caught off guard. Because I’mnotthis girl. The clingy one. The regretful one. The pregnant one.
But here I am.
Knocked up by a seven-foot alien who probably forgot my name the second he zipped up his pants.
