Page 23 of Connor

This can’t be happening.

But it was.

My fingers curled into my lap, nails biting into my palms, breath shuddering in my throat. I was careful. Always careful. But maybe not careful enough.

Two months.

The weight of it slammed into me all at once.

I didn’t have to do the math—I already knew.

That last night with Connor.

My lungs locked. My throat stiffened. My heart beat so hard it hurt.

I clamped my hands over my stomach, trying to steady myself, but all I could hear was his voice. All I could feel was him. His hands holding my hips, his body pressing me down, the sharp bite of his teeth against my skin. The way we lost ourselvesin each other, over and over, like we could make time stop if we just held on tight enough.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I had to stop thinking about it. About him.

About how I was alone in this now.

A choked breath scraped past my lips, something dangerously close to a sob. I wasn’t even sure when I’d started crying. I reached up, swiping at my face with trembling fingers, forcing myself to breathe, to think.

I had options.

I could call Victor.

Tell him the truth.

He’d come. Of course, he’d come.

But then what?

I could already picture it—the way his jaw would lock, the way his hands would curl into fists, the way he’d see this as just another reason why Connor McIntyre was a goddamn mistake.

And maybe he was right. Maybe I already knew that.

But that didn’t change anything.

I sucked in a shaky breath and let my hand drift to my stomach. My fingers splayed over the fabric of my hoodie—Connor’s hoodie. I hadn’t realized I was still wearing it. Hadn’t realized how tightly I was clutching it until my knuckles ached.

I let go.

I had to let go.

Victor couldn’t know. Not yet. Not until I figured out what the hell I was going to do. Because this wasn’t just about me. This wasn’t just about Connor. This was about ababy. A living, breathing, human.

I pushed off the toilet seat, grabbing the edge of the sink like it might hold me together. My reflection stared back at me, pale and wide-eyed, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling too fast.

I looked like I was about to be sick again.

Maybe I was.

I forced myself to move, each step toward my bedroom feeling heavier than the last. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing me inside the too-quiet space, but it didn’t make me feel safer. It didn’t make this any less real.

I grabbed my phone from the nightstand with shaking fingers and collapsed onto the bed, curling my legs up beneath me. The screen lit up, the glow too harsh in the dim room, but I barely noticed. I tapped open the browser and hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

I didn’t even know what I was supposed to look up.