I stared at my reflection, hand resting lightly on the small swell of my stomach. Knowing exactly what caused it didn't make it any easier to accept. My mood sank. I felt exposed—like my body had betrayed me and then asked me to forgive it. I pulled on a loose hooded sweater and matching leggings, soft armor for a shape I barely recognized, and headed downstairs to find Mikee.
"Hey," I said, voice low and dry—like the day had already worn me out.
"Cranky much? It's barely morning," she teased, her usual snark laced with concern.
"Pregnancy hormones," I muttered, half-apologetic, half-done explaining.
"Oh... right. Gotcha," she said, suddenly awkward, fumbling for the right response.
"It's okay, Mikee. Pretending I'm not pregnant won't make it go away," I said, too tired to soften the truth.
Mikee's parents still didn't know I was pregnant. I was too scared to tell them, and Mikee hadn't said anything either—which I was deeply, quietly grateful for. I didn't know how they'd react, and honestly, I didn't want to find out. If they knew, they might kick me out. Or worse—cut me out of their lives. Cut me out of Mikee's life.
The thought gutted me. Disappointing them. Losing her. Being alone.
I'd been living with them for over a month now. Every time I tried to pay rent, her parents waved me off.
"Keep it for necessities," they'd say.
They were kind. Too kind. And that kindness made me feel awful, like I was a weight they carried without complaint.
My own parents died in a car accident when I was seventeen. I was old enough to live independently, technically—but only because Mikee's parents stepped in as my guardians. I was healthy, capable, and knew how to take care of myself. But I had no one else. My relatives were strangers—faces I hadn't seen since I was three. When my parents died, they showed up for the funeral, offered their condolences, and vanished. None of them offered to take me in.
Only Mikee's parents fought for custody. At first, I thought they wanted a piece of what my parents left behind. But I was wrong. They just... cared.
My blood relatives couldn't be bothered.
And people say, 'Blood is thicker than water.'
Ha.
Water's been a hell of a lot more helpful.
Mikee's parents had been close with mine—high school friends who stayed in touch through everything. Maybe that's why they welcomed me so easily after the accident. I was grateful. But also guilty. I didn't want to be a burden, so I tried to contribute—offering what I could from the allowance I still received. I was careful with it. My parents had planned for my future, and I owed it to them not to waste what they left behind. I rarely touched the money. Just saved and saved, terrified that once it was gone, I'd be truly alone.
At least my relatives weren't greedy. Not even the inheritance was enough to make me worth their trouble. No one tried to take the money. Maybe they were well-off enough not to care. Or maybe they just didn't want the hassle of me—grief-stricken, seventeen, and inconvenient.
The memory hit fast and hard.
I missed my parents.
Missed them in a way that felt bone-deep now that I was going to be a mother myself.
I blinked back tears.
Hormones, I told myself. Just hormones.
That's what I blamed for the whirlwind of feelings lately. I wasn't usually this emotional. But now, everything felt like too much—mentally, emotionally, physically. The symptoms were relentless.
"You okay?" Mikee asked, her voice softer now.
Ever since we found out I was pregnant, Mikee had shifted into full-on guardian mode. Hovering. Watching. Fussing over every little thing. She treated me like I was her child, not just her friend. Part of me was deeply grateful—her care wrapped around me like a safety net I didn't know I needed. But the other part craved air. It was tender, yes. But also stifling. Like being loved so tightly you forget how to stretch.
"I'm fine," I said quietly, though the words felt hollow the moment they left my mouth.
I still went to campus, pretending everything was normal. I didn't want anyone to know. Not about the pregnancy. Not about the fact that I didn't even know who the father was. Where, when—none of it made sense. It was a blank space in my memory, and trying to fill it only made me dizzy. I had no answers. Just this reality. This body. This future. No take-backs. No rewinds. Just forward.
The Wilde situation seemed to have fizzled out. A week had passed, and he hadn't shown up again. I was relieved. One less thing to worry about. Still, he lingered in the back of my mind like a bad dream I hadn't fully woken from. I didn't want to think about him. Not now. Not with everything else pressing in. Maybe if a few more months go by and he still doesn't reappear, I'll finally believe he's gone for good.
Class passed in a blur. I wasn't so much distracted as I was drowning in fatigue. My eyes kept fluttering shut no matter how hard I fought it. Sleep won every time.
Then—before I could catch a breath—
"Ahh-!" I gasped, the sensation overwhelming.
"Stop, Bzzzz! Please—just stop!" I screamed, voice cracking as I begged him.
He didn't stop—his mouth relentless, lips and tongue drawing out sensations I couldn't name. I was drowning in it, unsure how to respond, my voice lost beneath the rush. He wasn't listening.
Eventually, he pulled back. I collapsed into the moment, arm flung over my face, lungs clawing for air.
"Haa... haa..." My breath came in shallow, trembling waves.
A rustle. Then—
"Hey, Mille! It's lunch now. Let's go," Mikee whispered loudly, nudging me awake.
I lifted my head, groggy and disoriented.
"You go ahead," I mumbled. "I think I'll swing by the infirmary and catch a few more zzz's."
The nightmares were growing shorter. Fading at the edges, like a film reel slowly running out. I felt like I was inching toward the end of whatever happened that night—though the details had started slipping through my fingers. Life had piled on too much. Still, the dreams came. Persistent. Like a nail poking through the surface—just enough to catch skin, never deep enough to stay buried.
I wanted to hammer it down. Flatten it. Erase it.
But it lingered. Always lingering.
I remembered the shape of him—the way he stood, the weight of his presence in the room. But his face? Still a blur. Like my mind refused to let it sharpen, as if clarity would cost more than I was ready to pay.
Why do I keep dreaming of it? Why does my mind replay fragments of that night-stretching them just far enough, only to sever them before they end? Why torment me with half-formed answers and a faceless figure I can't name?
If it's not going to show me who it was—what it was-then what's the point? It feels meaningless. Useless. Just another thing clawing at my nerves and stealing sleep.
Mikee and I split up. She went off to find Jameson, but not before casting me a hesitant glance—like she didn't want to leave me alone. I gave her a small nod and a half-smile, trying to reassure her I'd be fine. Then I turned and headed toward the infirmary.
Ms. Christine was there when I arrived. I asked if I could lie down for a bit, and she agreed without hesitation—she knew about my pregnancy, after all.
I collapsed onto the cot, limbs heavy, eyes fixed on the ceiling's blank expanse. Now that I was horizontal, sleep decided to play hard to get. My thoughts buzzed—louder than dreams, louder than silence. At some point, Ms. Christine left. I heard the door click shut but didn't bother to look.
Then—rustling.
I blinked. Was someone here? I hadn't heard anyone come in.
I let it go. Probably nothing. My head sank deeper into the pillow.
"Hey," said a voice I knew too well.
I jolted upright, heart thudding like a warning bell.
I shoved the curtain aside—and there he was. Nate. Stone-faced and stupidly beautiful, like someone sculpted him out of moonlight and forgot to add flaws. He sat in Ms. Christine's chair, gaze flicking toward me, then away, like caring was something he didn't want caught on record.
The way he sat—still, composed, irritatingly cinematic—he could've been in a cologne ad. I might've admired it, if it weren't Nate. Nate, who had a habit of showing up uninvited and making me feel things I never signed up for.
I gave him a look. The kind that said—explain yourself—or evaporate.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, suspicion curling around each word.
"Just checking on you," he said, too casual to be clean.
"Why?"
"No reason," he replied, like that was supposed to be enough.
We weren't close enough for concern. He hovered at the edges of my life—never fully in, never quite gone. And this habit of showing up when something felt off? I hadn't decided if it was protective... or predatory.
I narrowed my eyes. "You didn't come here just to ask how I'm doing. So what's the real reason?"
He shrugged, all practiced indifference. "Don't believe me? Fine."
Then, like he'd rehearsed the line in front of a mirror, he added, "I'm assisting Ms. Christine. It's for an assignment."
I raised an eyebrow, skepticism humming beneath my skin. "Okay. I'll half believe that. What assignment?"
"Data entry."
"What program?"
"Health Systems and Policy."
"And you're here for...?"
"To learn how health services affect outcomes."
"What?"
"I analyze student satisfaction through surveys," he said, locking eyes with me—steady, unreadable.
He answered everything without flinching. Nate never talked this much—except that night at the party, when it was just me and him and the air between us felt electric. Now, that same quiet intensity simmered in his gaze. The butterflies didn't flutter—they rioted. And deep in my abdomen, where the mark pulsed beneath my skin, warmth bloomed like a secret trying to surface.
I touched it instinctively.
"Are you done interrogating me?" he asked, voice laced with something playful, though his face had already gone blank again.
"Yup. And next time, maybe don't materialize like a ghost. You're going to be the death of me," I muttered, glaring.
He looked down, frowning. "Sorry. Didn't mean to."
I studied him. He sat there, still and unreadable. This version of Nate—hovering, lingering, flickering with emotion—was unfamiliar. But he was starting to grow on me. Slowly. Against my better judgment.
His posture was guarded, head bowed, but something about him tugged at me. Maybe it was the eyes. Maybe it was the way he moved—like gravity bent differently around him. Or maybe it was the way he made me feel... electric.
Then—heat. Sharp. Sudden.
"Ouch!" I gasped, clutching my abdomen.
It was happening again. The pain—familiar, cyclical, like a cruel tide that returned every few weeks. But this time, it didn't creep in. It struck. Sudden. Hotter. Deeper. Like something inside me had been lit from within.
It hurts.
Nate's head snapped up. His expression shifted—concern etched into every line. He crossed the room in seconds and, without hesitation, pressed his hand over the mark.
I froze.
"It's not supposed to happen this early," he muttered.
I stared at him, stunned. Pain still flaring, but my brain managed one coherent thought—he was being way too bold. And yet... his touch didn't feel wrong.
It felt electric.
Goosebumps skittered across my skin. The pain ebbed, replaced by a tingling warmth beneath his palm. My body tensed. A wave of pleasure surged through me—uninvited, overwhelming.
"Ah!" A quiet moan slipped out. "Hhm."
My eyes flew open. Mortified, I shoved Nate away, heart racing, mind spinning.
What the hell just happened?
I stared at him. He stared back—wide-eyed, startled—then smoothed his expression into that familiar mask of indifference.
"What was that?" I asked, voice trembling. "What did you do to me?"
His gaze faltered—just for a heartbeat—then he turned to leave. No explanation. No apology. Classic Nate. Always slipping away when things start to matter.
But this time, I grabbed his wrist.
His skin was ice-cold. The chill shot through me, sharp enough to make me shiver.
"I felt something when you touched me. Why did that happen?" I asked him—and myself—equally muddled.
He looked back. And in his eyes, something flickered—bright, elusive. Like a secret trying not to be seen.
"You said something," I whispered. "What did you mean? What's not supposed to happen yet? Is it connected to the mark—?"
A piercing ring exploded in my ears.
I let go of him, clutching my head, the sound splitting through me like glass.
He gently pulled my hands away and guided my head to his chest. His arms wrapped around me—steady, grounding. Like he'd done this before.
"I know you're confused. And you want answers," he murmured. "I can't give them to you. Not yet."
His scent—cool mint—filled my lungs. The ringing dulled. My pulse slowed.
I pulled back. His hand slipped from mine. I caught it.
"What do you mean?" I asked, dazed.
He looked into my eyes. Deep. Searching.
"It's not time yet," he said softly. "You'll know eventually."
Then he pried my fingers from his and walked out.
I sat there, stunned.
What the hell?
He just left. No answers. Just riddles.
Not time yet for what?
Every time he touched me, I got better. And the warmth—then the burn—always came when I felt fluttering. Was this normal pregnancy stuff? Because none of the pamphlets mentioned magical abdominal fireworks.
And Nate. He was shifting. From silent statue to cryptic mystery man. Dropping hints. Hovering. Caring. It was like watching someone glitch through personalities.
Then the moan replayed in my head.
My face went nuclear.
I lunged for the pillow, punched it, buried my face, and screamed.
Crazy Mille. You pent-up disaster. What did you just do?
I hugged the pillow, flailed, knocked the blanket off the cot. Then stood up, trying to compose myself.
But the moment replayed again, and I cringed so hard I wanted to melt into the floor.
Please. Someone. Open a hole. Let me disappear.
The next day, my eyes kept scanning for his silhouette.
Nate's.
I wanted answers—because of what he said. "It's not time yet." That line cracked open every question I'd buried since that night. Was he hinting at my memories? The ones clawing their way back through dreams—fragmented, flickering, unfinished. He told me to look through what I'd forgotten, through what I already knew. That could only mean that night. But why? What was so important that I had to remember it before he'd say anything?
Seriously?
But truthfully, I wasn't searching for Nate to get answers. I was watching for him so I could avoid him. I didn't want to face him—not after what I did. The embarrassment still clung to me like static.
"Ah!" A quiet moan slipped out. "Hhm."
The memory hit again. I cringed, my whole body reacting.
Beside me, Mikee glanced up from her phone, her thumbs pausing mid-text.
"Are you getting a cold? You're shivering," Mikee asked, her tone laced with concern.
I waved her off. "No. Just a chill. I'm fine."
She squinted at me. "You sure? Your immune system's kind of garbage right now, thanks to... you know."
I shot her a glare. She didn't say pregnancy, but she didn't have to.
Hands raised in mock surrender, she said, "Hey, girl. I'm just being concerned."
Then she dropped them and smirked. "Also, I totally get how emotional and unregulated your emotions can be. It's part of the process. I did my research."
I rolled my eyes.
"See? That reaction's part of it too," she said, smug.
I gave her a side-eye. "Having this condition doesn't mean my immune system's weak. That's a myth. It actually adapts."
Mikee waved me off. "Who cares? I totally understand," she said, voice dripping with fake sincerity.
Then, out of the corner of my eye—I saw him.
Nate.
I ducked behind Mikee so fast she nearly dropped her phone.
"What the hell?" she whispered. "Is this one of your emotional shifts?"
"Shhh. Just hide me," I hissed, peeking over her shoulder to check if Nate had seen me.
Too late. Our eyes met.
I ducked again, heart pounding like a drum in my chest.
"Uh, Mille?" Mikee blinked. "What is going on with you?"
I peeked once more. When I was sure Nate had walked past, I stepped away from Mikee's back.
"What was that?" she asked, arms crossed.
"It's nothing," I muttered, brushing it off.
Mikee didn't let it go. "Seriously? Are we doing secrets now? Is this one of those 'on-hold' topics we haven't talked about yet? Because FYI, I do remember them. I've just been a really good best friend, waiting for you to open up—because I know you've got a lot going on. So... which one is this? Hm?"
Her voice was light, but the hurt underneath was unmistakable. I gave her an apologetic look, and her expression softened.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to snap. I guess your emotional rollercoaster got to me too. What do you call it again? Perinatal something?"
"It's perinatal mood," I said quietly. "And I know. I'm sorry too."
I hesitated, then let the words tumble out.
"I've been keeping so much from you. Not because I don't trust you—just... I don't know how to explain it. I don't even know if it'll make sense, or if you'll believe me. Half the time, I don't believe myself. It feels insane. I feel insane. And the memory lapses? They don't help."
I lowered my voice to a whisper. "It's the pregnancy."
Mikee nodded, her expression softening even more.
"I can talk about it this time," I said. "Let's talk after class. At home."
She smiled. "Okay."
Just then, Axton jogged up, breathless and grinning. "Hey! My classes just ended. What are you two whispering about?"
We both turned toward him, too quickly.
He doesn't know. About the pregnancy.
And I want to tell him—I do—but he'd ask the one question I can't answer.
Who's the father?
And I still don't know.
For now, it's enough that Mikee knows.
I glanced at Mikee. Mikee glanced at me.
Axton squinted at us, suspicious. "Okay. Not creepy at all," he said, raising an eyebrow. "What's going on?"
"Just girl talk," Mikee replied casually.
Axton looked at me. I shrugged. "What she said. Girl talk."
"So what's the rizz?" he asked, pitching his voice high like he was auditioning for a teen drama.
Mikee and I exchanged a look, then burst into laughter.
Axton grinned, clearly proud of himself.
"Let's go eat. My baby's hungry," I said playfully, shifting the mood.
Mikee gave me a worried glance, clearly catching the weight behind my playful jab about the pregnancy. I offered her a small, reassuring smile. Axton noticed the exchange, raised an eyebrow, but stayed silent.
I turned and walked ahead, letting the cafeteria pull me forward. For now, I let the hunger take over—and let the rest of it unravel quietly behind me.
-
Hiya Mobsters!
This chapter's a little shorter than my usual chaos—but hey, size isn't everything, right? 😏 I sprinkled in a bit of romance (yes, I went there), stirred in some tension, and left just enough subtle clues to make you squint at your screen like, "Wait... what just happened?"
So—how did it make you feel? Be honest. Me? I smiled a little while writing it. This is probably the closest I've ever come to writing romance without spontaneously combusting. Most of my "expertise" comes from binge—reading novels, manga, and manhwas, plus watching series like it's my full-time job. So yeah, it's all theory. Maybe a few secondhand stories. Maybe some wild observations. But actual romance? Pfft. I'm running on vibes and imagination.
You can probably tell my romantic scenes are whipped up from pure fantasy—like cotton candy dreams with a dash of delusion. But hey, maybe that's part of the charm. Did you enjoy it? Confess~ 😘
...Or don't. Keep your secrets. Hmph. 🙄
But if you're feeling generous, toss me one of your exhilarating moments. Something spicy. Something swoon-worthy. I promise to treat it with care (and maybe shamelessly borrow it for future chapters—with love, of course).
Anyway, buckle up. The next couple of chapters are turning up the heat: more romantic hints, rising tension between our main leads—and maybe a little drama from the supporting cast too.
So stay tuned, keep reading, and prepare for the emotional rollercoaster.
Chat you then,
—mobpsych37