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Magnolia Sebring

The swatch in my hand is coral. Or maybe clay. Possibly salmon. Honestly, I couldn’t care less if it were nuclear orange.

I stare at it like it holds the answer to the question that’s been chewing a hole through my brain since I opened my eyes this morning. To be clear, it doesn’t.

I set the swatch down on the desk next to a half-finished sketch, a mug of cold coffee, and my denial. My fingers reach for my phone before I can even talk myself out of it. Again.

Calendar app. Cycle tracker. Count backward.

I count again. Then one more time in case math has suddenly betrayed me.

But no. Same answer every time.

I should’ve gotten my period two days ago.

I open the pregnancy tracker app. Tap through the calendar. Last period? Entered. Date of possible conception? Entered.

Kitchen. Countertop. One very unplanned moment of recklessness.

The app whirs for half a second and flashes the result at me in bold, unforgiving text.

Estimated due date––same day as the Grand Final Game. The team hasn’t played in that game since Alex left. But with him back on the team, they will definitely be one of the final two.

My blood goes cold.

“Oh shit, Alex,” I whisper to the empty design office. “What have we done?”

Being late doesn’t mean I’m pregnant.

It’s practically my mantra at this point. I’ve repeated it so many times in my head today I could slap it on a throw pillow and start an Etsy shop.

I shove my phone under a stack of fabric books and try to focus on the task in front of me. But all I can think about is that damn due date blinking at me.

I mean, my cycle could be off. That’s normal, right?

The IUD was hormonal. Hormones mess with cycles. Removing the IUD could throw things off.

There was no warning label that said: Caution: you could build a human two weeks after the removal of this device.

Still… I reach for my phone again. I type the words before I chicken out.

How soon can you get pregnant after IUD removal?

Enter.

The first result pops up: Immediately. For some women, ovulation resumes within days.

I scroll further.

Pregnancy is possible within the first cycle after removal.

Fertility returns quickly for most women.

Well, that’s great.

Just freaking fantastic.

I sink lower into my chair and stare at the ceiling tiles.

“Perfect,” I say under my breath. “Love that for me.”

By 4:30, I’ve made it through the workday on the irrational belief that if I ignore my uterus long enough, it’ll get its act together and show up to the party.

It doesn’t.

So on the drive home, I pull into the pharmacy and act as though I’m not about to make eye contact with my entire future. I head straight for the aisle that screams Hi, I may or may not be pregnant, but I’m definitely spiraling.

And of course, there’s a teenage boy stocking shelves two feet away. I do my best not to make eye contact as I grab one box… and another… and a third just in case.

Three tests. Three brands. Not because I’m dramatic––okay, I am––but because I need confirmation from every major pregnancy oracle on the shelf.

I bring them to the counter where the cashier—bless her—tries very hard not to react. Still, I catch it. The micro-tilt of her head. The almost-smile that says she’s silently wishing me either luck or peace.

She scans the boxes in silence, and I swipe my card.

She hands me the bag, and I swear her eyes say congratulations or condolences?

In my head, I whisper back Honestly? Same.

By the time I get home, I’ve run through every scenario—including faking my own death and moving to Tasmania. I shove the pharmacy bag deep into the cabinet under the sink, next to my box of tampons. Irony, party of one.

I’m sautéing garlic when the door opens. I hear his heavy footsteps across the tile—sneakers soft, but his stride unmistakable—and then the comforting sound of him heading straight for me.

Warm arms wrap around my waist. A kiss lands at the curve of my neck, slow and lazy.

“Something smells good,” he says against my skin.

“It’s dinner. Not me.” I’ve been panic-sweating for about eight hours.

Alex chuckles, pulling me back against his chest. “Both smell good.”

He nuzzles my neck again, fingers sliding over my stomach—unaware of how that small gesture makes my brain short-circuit.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice casual, but I hear the edge of curiosity underneath.

“Yep. Totally fine.” Boy, that’s a lie.

Dinner is easy—sautéed chicken with roasted sweet potatoes, plus a side of my best effort at pretending to be chill. I even threw in steamed broccoli so his protein-carb-veggie ratio wouldn’t suffer just because I’m emotionally unraveling.

But I’m quiet. Too quiet. And Alex doesn’t miss much when it comes to me.

Halfway through his second bite, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair, brows drawn low. “All right. What’s going on, favorite?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“Magnolia––”

His voice is low. Steady. Serious enough to make me glance up. “Tell me.”

I drop my fork. Take a breath. And say it.

“I think I might be pregnant.”

There’s a beat of silence. A full blink. Two.

“Are you sure?”

“No, but I’m late… which tracks since your pull-out game has all the timing of a broken cuckoo clock.”

He leans back in his chair, dragging a hand through his hair, grinning. “That one time did it?”

“You mean that one time on a kitchen counter during peak ovulation? Like we were daring fate to show us what she could do.”

His smile softens. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit.”

Alex rubs a hand over his jaw. “You need to take a test.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Got that covered.”

I push back from the table, heart thudding now that the decision’s made. He follows as I head to the en suite bath, open the cabinet under the sink, and pull out the pharmacy bag.

“Three different kinds,” I say, holding it up. “Because I believe in overkill.”

I line them up on the counter like I’m prepping a science experiment. Three different brands. Three different designs. All ready to crush or confirm my timeline.

Alex leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me as though he wants to help but also very much doesn’t want to interfere.

“I need privacy,” I say, pressing my palm to his chest and nudging him back.

“You sure? You didn’t need privacy the night we may have conceived this child.”

“Out,” I say, shoving him through the door. “Go sit on the bed and practice your don’t-panic face.”

He laughs and disappears.

I do the tests, one after the other, and place them on the counter. I wash my hands and open the door. Alex is sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on mine the second I step out.

“Timer’s on,” I say, showing him my phone screen. “Three minutes.”

He nods, and I sit beside him. He takes my hand without hesitation, and we don’t speak for a while.

Then he says, “What if it’s positive?”

I glance down at our joined hands. His thumb brushing mine. Steady. Warm.

“It means the baby would be due when the Grand Final is happening.”

There’s not a flicker of doubt in his words. “If you’re having our baby, I’m gonna be with you. To hell with rugby. You and the baby come first. Always.”

I close my eyes. Breathe. Let that settle.

“The timing’s not ideal,” I say.

“Plenty of players have babies during the season. Some even during the finals. It happens. No one’s life ever unfolds on a perfect schedule.”

I look at him, really look at him—and it’s so obvious. It doesn’t matter what this test says. I have him. We have each other. And we’ll figure the rest out.

“Thirty seconds,” I say, staring at the countdown.

“Whatever happens, we’ve got this,” he says, brushing a kiss against the back of my hand.

I don’t know what I’m expecting.

Maybe a single line. Maybe that strange, hollow relief I think I’m supposed to feel if it’s negative.

But as I sit there, staring down the seconds, a different truth rises in my chest—slow and quiet but impossible to ignore.

I want it to be positive. God help me, I want it. Not because we planned it. Not because the timing is perfect. But because there’s something in the idea of this tiny, impossible future that seems like it already belongs to us.

The timer alarms, and three little plastic tests hold the weight of our entire future. I snatch my phone off the bed and glance at Alex. He’s already standing, like his body can’t wait another second.

We walk to the bathroom together, my pulse pounding in my ears.

And there they are.

Three tests.

Three windows.

Six hot pink lines staring back at us. Not faint. Not subtle. Bold. Unapologetic.

Fate has spoken.

I let out a breath and say the only thing that comes to mind. “We conceived our child on our kitchen countertop. That feels very on-brand for us.”

Alex says nothing at first. He stares at the tests, then at me. His eyes are wide. A little dazed. A little wrecked. Totally in love.

And then his arms are around me. Tight. Solid. Unshakable.

He buries his face in my neck, and exhales.

“You’re going to be the best mother, favorite. And I already love this kid more than anything.”

That’s it. That’s the part that undoes me.

Any anxiety still hanging on? Gone. Any doubt trying to find a foothold? Obliterated. Because he means it. Every word.

I pull back enough to see his face. “You sure you’re ready for 3 a.m. feedings?”

He grins. “I’m ready.”

“Changing diapers?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

I laugh—relieved and overwhelmed all at once. We hold each other again, forehead to forehead, the moment stretching into something soft and sacred. Then he kisses me. Not wild kisses but slower. Sweeter. A kiss that tastes like home.

This wasn’t part of the plan. But then again, neither was Alex. And look how that turned out.

I didn’t see him coming, didn’t expect him to crash into my life.

And now, here we are—standing in our bathroom, holding hands and holding our breath, with six pink lines and a future that just rewrote itself.

I don’t know what’s coming next. We’re not ready. Not really. But we’re in this together. And right now, that’s all I need.

We’re tangled in each other—arms, smiles, soft breath between kisses—when Alex brushes his lips along my jaw. Then lower, to the place just beneath my ear that turns my spine into melted sugar.

He’s always been affectionate and generous with touch, but this is different. His hands slide beneath the hem of my shirt, slow and confident. I don’t stop him.

“You realize that this is how we got into this mess?” I say, tipping my head to the side for more.

“Well, you’re already pregnant, and it isn’t possible for me to cause any more mischief,” he says, tugging the shirt up and over my head in one easy motion.

His gaze drags over me like a touch, and he grins. “No harm, no foul, sweetheart.”

I laugh, pulling him in by the collar of his shirt.

“You’re really leaning into the whole ‘too late now’ energy.”

“Babe, it’s not possible for me to get you more pregnant.”

I barely have time to roll my eyes before his mouth is on mine—slow and deep and persuasive in a way that short-circuits every protest I could have possibly made.

He lifts me with no warning and carries me straight toward the bed.

The bathroom light glows behind us, and I can still see the three tests sitting on the counter.

I should be overwhelmed. Spinning. Worried about timing and careers and everything else that comes next.

But right now, I’m wrapped in the arms of the man I love. And I’m carrying the start of something we made together—something real. Something ours.

We’re a family now.