Chapter 54 Patrick
The cat-and-mouse dance between Lottie and me continues.
Three weeks of it.
Three weeks of avoiding each other just enough to pretend things are normal, while still orbiting the same spaces like nothing between us has actually changed.
Three weeks of stolen glances and quick looks away.
Three weeks of pretending.
But something has changed.
And my body refuses to let me ignore it anymore.
I’m exhausted all the time. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, but the bone-deep kind that makes even simple things feel like a chore. My temper is shorter than usual, too—little things irritate me in ways they never did before.
And the smells. God, the smells.
Certain scents hit me out of nowhere, turning my stomach instantly. Coffee one morning. Someone’s cologne in the hallway, even the smell of food that drifts through the science building vents.
My stomach rolls violently every time.
More than once, I barely make it to a bathroom in time.
Right now, it’s no different.
I’m on my knees on the bathroom floor, leaning against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl as my body empties everything I managed to eat today.
When it’s finally over, I stay there for a moment, breathing hard, my forehead resting against my arm.
My whole body feels weak.
Shaky.
And as I sit there in the quiet of my house, the truth I’ve been avoiding for weeks presses in on me.
I can’t lie to myself anymore.
Something has changed.
And deep down… I already know why.
It’s time to stop pretending.
Time to actually find out.
With a quiet groan, I push myself to my feet, gripping the counter for balance when the room tilts slightly. I rinse my mouth, brush my teeth slowly, then down a full glass of water.
For once, it stays down.
A small mercy.
I grab my keys from the counter, shrug into my coat, wrap my scarf around my neck, and head for the door. My mind is already racing ahead, my thoughts tumbling over each other.
I barely remember to lock the door behind me.
The cold air outside barely registers as I hurry to my car. I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine, pulling out almost immediately instead of waiting for it to warm up like I normally would.
The pharmacy is only a few minutes away.
It feels like an eternity.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel as the thought circles relentlessly in my mind.
What if it’s real?
What if this fated mate thing isn’t just mythology and instinct and wishful thinking?
I pull into the pharmacy parking lot, park quickly, then head inside.
The fluorescent lights feel harsh as I step through the doors.
I don’t hesitate.
I walk straight to the aisle I need.
Pregnancy tests.
My eyes scan the shelves, lingering over the different brands and instructions. My heart is beating faster now, each thump loud in my ears as I read the boxes.
I grab three different ones.
If I’m going to do this, I want certainty.
Clutching them tightly, I make my way to the self-checkout. The last thing I want right now is some bored cashier watching me scan pregnancy tests while trying not to look curious.
The machine beeps softly as I ring them up.
I stuff the boxes into a bag and hold it close to my chest as I leave the store.
Time to face the music.
Because if these come back positive…
There’s no denying anything anymore.
I’ll have to make a doctor’s appointment.
And the reality I’ve been pushing away for the last month and a half will be staring me directly in the face.
Because this—
This pregnancy—
Would be undeniable proof that the fated mate bond is real.
That everything I’ve been trying to rationalize away was never something I could escape in the first place.
I make it back home in record time, barely remembering the drive.
I’m not even sure what I’m hoping for.
Part of me is terrified I am pregnant.
Another part is almost more terrified that this will prove everything is just in my head.
The moment I walk inside, I head straight for the bathroom.
The bag crinkles in my hand as I set it on the counter. I brace my palms against the sink, breathing deeply, trying to steady myself.
Then I open the boxes.
One by one.
I take each test out, set it on the counter, and read the instructions again, even though I already know what to do.
Finally, I prepare them all.
When everything is ready, I take a breath and do exactly what the instructions say.
A few seconds under the stream for each stick.
Then I place them carefully on the sink. Washing my hands as I stare blankly at them.
Three silent judges. Waiting.
I set a five-minute timer on my phone.
Then I start pacing. Back and forth across the small bathroom floor.
My heart pounds with every step.
My mind runs through every possibility, every consequence, every conversation that could come next.
The timer feels like it takes forever.
Five minutes stretches into what feels like twenty.
Finally, my phone chimes. The sound makes me jump.
I walk slowly to the sink.
Pick up the first test: two lines.
My breath catches.
I grab the second: a plus sign.
My pulse spikes.
Then I reach for the third.
The digital screen flashes clearly: Pregnant.
For a long moment, I just stare.
Because this… This is proof.
Irrefutable proof.
Everything I’ve been denying since the beginning now sits plainly in my hands.
My throat tightens.
Because this changes everything.
“I have to tell Lottie,” I whisper to the empty room.
The words feel heavy the moment they leave my mouth.
Because how exactly am I supposed to tell her?
How do I explain that while I was telling her about fated mates… I left out something this important?
This doesn’t just affect me.
It affects her too.
A baby isn’t something you can ignore.
It isn’t something you can pretend didn’t happen.
A baby means responsibility.
Care. Love. Stability. Support.
For at least eighteen years.
I look back down at the tests in my hands, my heart pounding again as the full weight of reality settles over me.
And for the first time since this all began…
I realize I might have made a very big mistake keeping this from her.
But even with that realization settling in…
The task in front of me doesn’t get any smaller.
If anything, it grows.
It looms larger with every passing second, stretching into something massive and overwhelming as my mind spins through every possible outcome.
Every possible version of how this could go.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling slowly, but it does nothing to steady the storm building inside me.
Because now I have to tell her.
And I have no idea what that’s going to look like.
My thoughts fracture into scenarios, each one more vivid than the last— Maybe she’ll be happy.
The idea flickers briefly, fragile but warm. I can almost see it—her eyes lighting up, that fierce certainty she carries softening into something brighter, something hopeful.
Maybe she’ll see this as confirmation of everything she’s been trying to tell me.
That we’re real.
That this—us—was never something meant to be denied.
But just as quickly, that thought shifts.
Maybe she’ll be angry. Not just upset—but furious.
Because I didn’t tell her.
Because I kept something this big from her while standing there, telling her we needed to pretend nothing happened.
My chest tightens at the thought of that anger directed at me—sharp, justified, impossible to argue against.
And then— Maybe she’ll cry.
That image hits harder than the rest.
Lottie breaking down, overwhelmed, hurt in a way I caused.
Maybe she’ll rage and cry all at once, emotions spilling over because this isn’t just complicated anymore—it’s real in a way neither of us can ignore.
I swallow hard, my throat dry.
Every version of her reaction plays out in my head, one after another, none of them easy.
None of them simple.
And yet…
Beneath all of that fear— Underneath the anxiety and the guilt and the uncertainty— There’s a smaller thought.
Quieter. More fragile. But persistent.
Maybe she’ll still want me.
The idea makes my chest ache.
Maybe she’ll want the baby too.
My grip tightens slightly on the edge of the counter.
Maybe… she won’t walk away.
The thought lingers, hesitant but hopeful.
Because despite everything—despite the mess I’ve made, despite the distance I tried to put between us— there’s a part of me that still wants that outcome.
That still imagines it.
Her. Me. This child.
A family.
The word feels foreign and impossibly heavy all at once.
I close my eyes briefly, letting out a shaky breath.
Because hope…
Might be the most dangerous thing of all.