ℂ𝕒𝕝𝕖𝕓 ℝ𝕠𝕤𝕤𝕚 | 𝔹𝕒𝕓𝕪 𝔻𝕒𝕕𝕕𝕪

The pregnancy test sat on the edge of your bathroom sink like a bad joke. Caleb Rossi had let himself in through your window—same as always, no knock, no text, because your room was his room and you were his property. He'd been planning to drag you to a party, maybe feel you up against your headboard first. Instead, he stopped cold.

Two pink lines.

For a full five seconds, he didn't move. His gold chain stopped swinging. His hand, mid-reach for your waist, hung in the air. Then his lips curled into a smirk—not the easy one he used on teachers and teammates, but something sharper. Dismissive.

He picked up the test between two fingers like it was contaminated. Held it to the light. Turned it over. Read the little window again. And laughed.

"Seriously?" The word came out dripping with disbelief. He tossed the stick onto your bedspread. It bounced once and landed near your pillow. "You actually think I'm gonna fall for this?"

He turned to face you. You were sitting on the edge of your bed, hands folded in your lap, face unreadable. He hated when you went statue-still. It made him feel like he was performing for an empty theater.

"No way that's mine." He gestured at the test with a flick of his wrist, then shoved both hands into the pockets of his ripped jeans. His jaw worked side to side—a nervous tic he'd never admit to. "We were careful. I was careful. You said you were on—" He stopped. Squinted at you. "You are on something, right? The pill? That shot thing?"

Your silence stretched. His smirk twitched.

"Whatever." He turned his back to you, pacing the length of your room. His boots scuffed against the floorboards. One hand came up to rake through his dark hair, leaving it messier. "It's probably a false positive. Those cheap drugstore tests are garbage. My cousin got one and she wasn't even—" He waved the thought away. "You're not pregnant."

He said it like a decree. Like saying it made it true.

When you still didn't respond, he stopped pacing and turned on his heel. His eyes swept over you—your face, your stomach, your hands. His expression flickered. Something possessive and ugly crawled behind his gaze. He crossed the room in three long strides, grabbed your chin, and tilted your face up to his.

His thumb pressed into your lower lip, hard enough to hurt. "You're mine," he said slowly, enunciating every word. "So if you were stupid enough to get knocked up by someone else, I'll kill you. And then I'll kill him."

He searched your face for a reaction. Found none. His grip tightened.

"But you didn't," he continued, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Because you're not that dumb. And you're not pregnant. So we're gonna go to CVS tomorrow, get a real test, and when it's negative, you're gonna apologize for scaring me like that."

He let go of your chin and stepped back. His breathing was faster than before. His chest rose and fell under his tight black t-shirt. He ran a hand over his face—palm dragging from forehead to jaw—and laughed again, but this time it came out breathier. Less convincing.

"Jesus. You really had me going for a second." He pointed at you, index finger jabbing the air. "This is a attention thing, right? You feel like I've been ignoring you?" He scoffed. "I text you every hour. I show up every night. What more do you want?"

He dropped onto your bed, bouncing on the mattress, and picked up the test again. Stared at it like it personally offended him. His thumb rubbed over the plastic window, smudging the lines.

"I'm supposed to be at Princeton next year," he said, more to the test than to you. "My dad's got connections. I've got a lacrosse scholarship waiting. You think I'm gonna let some—" He threw the test across the room. It clattered against your closet door and fell to the floor. "No. Not happening."

He looked at you then. Really looked. His eyes were bright, almost feverish. His lower lip was slightly red where he'd been biting it.

"You're gonna fix this," he said. Not a question. A command. "Tomorrow. Clinic. And then we're never talking about it again. Got it?"

He stood up, walked to your window, and paused with one leg on the fire escape. He glanced back over his shoulder. His expression had shifted again—still arrogant, but underneath it, something frayed. His obsession wouldn't let him leave without one last look.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said quietly. "You're still mine. But this?" He nodded toward the test on the floor. "This is nothing. A scare. A mistake. And you're gonna make it go away."

He held your gaze for a long moment. His fingers drummed against the window frame. Then he forced that cocky smirk back onto his face—a mask that didn't quite fit anymore.

"Text me when you're done crying about it," he said. "I'll come over and make you feel better. The usual."

Then he dropped onto the fire escape and disappeared into the night, leaving the test on your floor, your silence unbroken, and his denial hanging in the air like a slammed door that hadn't closed all the way.