Chapter 2
He didn't move. I didn't move.
Pregnancy test still between us, white plastic catching window light, two pink lines stark against his knuckles. Black suit sleeve taut over his forearm where he held it. My knees ached against hardwood. Breath shallow. Eyes burned from crying and I couldn't blink right.
"You're coming with me," he said again, quieter this time, but no less absolute.
I shook my head before I could think. Small movement. Chin tucked. Hands braced on floor.
"I'm not," I said.
His jaw tightened. Light stubble caught daylight. He didn't raise voice. That made it worse. He stayed crouched, eye level with me, test still held chest-high like evidence he wouldn't put down.
"Anna," he said. "Don't do this here. On floor. Like this."
"Like what?" My voice cracked. "Like you found something I wasn't ready to show you?"
He exhaled through nose. Slow. Controlled. Looked at test, then at me.
"Where did you learn to hide things from me?" he asked again, same words as before, but now softer, hurt bleeding through. "You hid this. How long?"
I wiped cheek with heel of hand. Lace trim of robe sleeves dragged damp.
"I wasn't hiding," I said. One short lie. "I was going to tell you."
"When?" Quiet call-out. No heat, just fact. "After doctor? After you decided alone?"
I had no answer. Silence stretched. Apartment hummed — refrigerator, traffic beyond windows, my breathing too loud.
He shifted weight, knee popping faint. Finally lowered hand holding test, not to floor, but offered toward me.
"Whose is this, Anna?" he had asked before. I'd answered. It's yours. Now he needed more than words.
"I need you out of this apartment," he said. "Today. Now."
My stomach dropped. "Why now?"
"Because you were on floor crying alone with this in your hand," he said. "Because you didn't call me. Because last time you went quiet for three weeks and I found you at urgent care after. I won't watch that happen again."
Last time. County clinic on Highway 31. I hadn't told him about fainting then either. He remembered.
"Where?" I asked. Stall tactic. Hands still on floor. Not standing.
"My place," he said. "Downtown. Guest room is yours if you want it. Doctor I trust can see you tomorrow morning. Private. No waiting room. No questions you don't want to answer."
His place meant his control. Doorman, keycard elevator, windows higher than mine, no fire escape I knew. But also meant clean sheets, food in fridge, someone else listening for heartbeat.
"I can't just leave," I said. Plea, small. "I need — I need to think."
"You can think there," he said. "You can't think here on knees."
He stood, slow. Knees straightened. Black suit pants creased sharp. Offered empty hand, other still holding test. Palm up. Not grabbing. Waiting.
"I won't carry you," he said. "You walk. Choose to walk."
Power imbalance naked in that gesture. He could wait. He could also not wait. Daylight fell across his shoes, my bare feet, dust motes between us.
I stared at his hand. Then at test.
"Give it to me," I said.
He hesitated half second, then placed test in my palm. Warm from his grip. Two lines hadn't faded. Proof heavier than plastic should be.
I curled fingers around it. Stood.
Legs numb, tingling shot through calves. I gripped edge of windowsill to steady. White robe slipped off shoulder, I pulled it straight. He stepped back, gave space, but eyes tracked every move.
"Bathroom," I said. "Need bag. Need clothes."
He nodded once. "I'll be by door. Take what you need. Nothing else."
I walked past him, bare feet silent on wood, test clutched tight. Bathroom bright, mirror showed red eyes, hair pulled back messy, mascara smudged. I didn't fix it.
Grabbed small canvas tote from hook. Dropped test inside first, then zip pouch. Added toothbrush, hair tie, phone charger, yoga pants folded from laundry basket, two shirts, underwear. Minimal. Under his watch.
He waited in hallway entry, back to me, hands in pockets now, shoulders tight. Front door closed but unlocked. Keys on console. My apartment keys beside his.
I came out, tote over shoulder, robe still on but I had pulled sweatpants on underneath at last minute, socks in hand.
"I'm standing," I said. "I'm leaving with you. But not because you told me to. Because I choose to go where someone can check this is real."
He turned. Looked at tote, at test bulge inside, at my face.
"Understood," he said. Voice rough. "You hold it. You keep it. Door's yours to open."
May you like
He reached past me, not touching me, and unlocked deadbolt. Held door open. Hallway air cooler, scented with cleaning spray and someone's cooking down hall.
I stepped toward threshold, test secured in bag against my hip, feet now on entry rug, hand hovering not yet on door frame. I hadn't crossed yet. I hadn't surrendered.
