Not loud.
But it didn't need to be.
My throat tightened.
I swallowed hard before slowly lifting my head.
My eyes traveled upward— his chest, his neck, his jaw—
Then his eyes.
My breath caught.
Up close, it was worse.
Much worse.
His gaze held mine, steady, unreadable, yet intense enough to make my stomach twist.
"I've caught you staring," he said, his tone calm but edged with something sharper. "For a while now."
My lips parted slightly.
"I— was I?" My voice came out softer than I intended.
His eyebrow lifted faintly.
"Yes." A pause. "I'd appreciate it if you stopped."
The words hit.
Hard.
Heat rushed to my face again— but this time it burned differently.
Shame.
Embarrassment.
"I'm sorry," I said quickly, nodding once, my gaze dropping again.
A brief silence.
Then—
He turned.
Just like that.
No hesitation.
No second glance.
He walked away, rejoining his friends like nothing had happened.
Like I was nothing.
I stood there for a second longer.
Then I turned.
And walked.
Fast.
—
The cool evening air hit my face as I reached the small ice-cream stand just outside the complex. I sat down on the bench, the cold plastic of the seat grounding me as I unwrapped the cone in my hand.
I took a slow lick.
Sweet.
Cold.
It barely registered.
My mind replayed everything.
His voice.
His eyes.
The way he looked at me.
I swallowed hard, staring ahead.
"Get it together," I muttered under my breath.
Headlights suddenly swept across the ground in front of me.
Bright.
Sharp.
I looked up.
A car pulled in smoothly, the engine purring low, expensive, powerful.
Black.
Sleek.
Unreal.
My breath caught slightly as it came to a stop right in front of me.
The window rolled down.
And revealed —
Him.
Tony.
He stepped out, closing the door with a soft click before walking toward me.
My grip tightened around the cone.
"Can I have a seat?" he asked, gesturing to the empty space beside me.
"Y-yes," I managed.
He sat.
Close.
Too close.
I could feel the heat radiating off him.
He opened his mouth to speak—
"I promise I wasn't waiting here to watch you leave," I blurted out quickly. "I swear."
His lips curved into a small smile.
"You don't need to swear," he said softly. "I know."
I blinked. "You… know?"
He nodded, his gaze steady on mine. "Yeah."
A pause.
Then he exhaled slowly, leaning back slightly. "I came to say I'm sorry."
I froze.
"I shouldn't have spoken to you like that," he continued. "It gets… tiring. Being watched all the time. Even when I'm just trying to breathe."
My grip on the cone loosened slightly.
"You don't have to apologize," I said quickly. "I should've looked away."
His eyes searched mine.
"I take it you've forgiven me?"
"There's nothing to forgive," I shook my head.
A small silence settled between us.
Then he stood.
"It's getting dark," he said, glancing toward the road. "Sports complex is far from the dorms."
My heart picked up again.
"I can give you a ride. If you need one."
"Yes."
The word slipped out too fast.
Too easy.
His eyebrow lifted slightly, amused.
"Alright."
He turned, heading back to his car.
I hesitated for half a second.
Then stood.
And followed.
The passenger door opened smoothly under my hand. I slid inside, my breath catching as I took in the interior.
Luxury.
Everywhere.
The seat molded around me as I settled in.
The door shut.
The engine roared to life.
And then—
We moved.
Fast.
The campus lights blurred past the window as silence filled the car.
Thick.
Charged.
I sat beside him, my hands resting stiffly in my lap, my heart still refusing to calm.
And somewhere deep inside—
I felt it.
The night was far from over.
---
TWO MONTHS LATER.
The Campus Clinic.
My thumb dragged across my phone screen— up, down, up again. Same motion, same pointless scroll. The bright white light burned into my eyes, but I couldn't stop. If I stopped, I'd think. And if I thought, I'd spiral.
The thin hospital blanket scratched against my legs as I shifted on the bed. The paper lining beneath me crinkled loudly, the sound too sharp in the quiet ER room. My stomach twisted again— not hunger this time. Nausea. The same nausea that had been creeping up on me for about a month now.
I swallowed hard, pressing my lips together.
Two hours.
Two whole hours of waiting just to be told what was wrong with me.
My leg bounced uncontrollably, heel tapping against the metal frame of the bed. Tap. Tap. Tap. Faster. Louder.
"Can you relax?" I muttered under my breath, pressing my palm down on my thigh. It didn't help. My body wouldn't listen.
The door creaked open.
I froze.
My head snapped up so fast my neck protested. The doctor stepped in— middle‑aged, slightly hunched, his white coat hanging loosely over his frame. His glasses dangled from a cord around his neck, swinging slightly as he walked.
My fingers tightened around my phone.
He had the results.
My chest tightened.
I pushed myself upright immediately, spine straight, shoulders tense. My eyes locked onto his face, searching— for anything. A hint. A clue.
But his expression… blank.
Too blank.
He stopped beside my bed.
"I have your test results," he said.
My throat went dry.
I nodded quickly, too quickly. "Okay… what's wrong with me?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached for his glasses, slipping them onto his nose with deliberate slowness. The silence stretched. My heartbeat thudded loudly in my ears.
Then—
"You're pregnant."