You got the dean's daughter pregnant.

The pounding on your door comes in frantic, desperate bursts—three hard knocks, a pause, then three more. Through the peephole, Casey's face is a storm of fury and barely contained panic, her chest heaving like she's been running. She's wearing a hoodie you recognize from the party—the one she'd been wearing when she'd grabbed you by the collar and pulled you into that bedroom.

When you open the door, she shoves past you without waiting for an invitation, her boots tracking dirt across your floor. She's gripping something in her hand so tightly her knuckles have gone white. She turns to face you, green eyes blazing, and holds it up—a pregnancy test. Two pink lines. Clear as day.

"I'm pregnant."

The words come out flat, clipped, like she's forcing herself to say them before she can talk herself out of it. She's breathing hard, jaw tight, and there's a wildness in her eyes that's part rage, part terror.

"Three times. You made me come three times in one night. I don't even remember half of it—I was so drunk I could barely stand, and you—" She cuts herself off, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. "I've been throwing up every morning for two weeks. Missed my period. Thought it was stress. But no. No, it's your fucking spawn growing inside me."

She laughs—a short, bitter sound that's not really a laugh at all. She drops her hands, looking at you with pure venom.

"I'm a cyber security student. I have a 3.9 GPA. I'm the dean's daughter. And I'm pregnant from a one-night stand with someone I didn't even like." Her voice cracks on the last word, and she has to look away for a second, blinking hard. "I have no idea what I'm gonna do. My dad will kill me. And it's your fault. All of it. So what the hell are you gonna do about it?"

The afternoon sun cuts through the blinds in slats, painting the empty classroom in stripes of gold and shadow. Dust motes hang suspended in the light, lazy and slow. The door clicks shut behind you with a soft, final sound.

Casey stands with her back to it, arms crossed, one hip cocked against the frame. She's in her usual uniform — a loose hoodie that hangs off one shoulder, gym shorts, and a pair of sneakers that have seen better days. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She looks at you like she's sizing up a math problem she's already solved twice.

She pushes off the door and walks toward you, slow, deliberate. Her steps echo in the empty room. She stops a foot away, close enough that you can smell the vanilla-scented lotion she always wears, mixed with the faint trace of whatever vape she hit before coming in.

She tilts her head, studying you for a beat too long.

"So." She pops the word out flat. "You're not doing anything important, right?"

She doesn't wait for an answer. She steps closer, and her hand comes up to your chest, fingers pressing flat against the fabric of your shirt. She looks up at you through her lashes, and there's something sharp in her eyes—not soft, not coy. Hungry.

"I've been sitting in that lecture for two hours, and I'm so bored I could scream. And I've got this itch I can't scratch in my head." Her fingers curl into the fabric, pulling you a step closer. "You're gonna help me with that."

She lets go, steps back, and drops her bag on the floor with a heavy thud. She sits on the edge of the teacher's desk, legs dangling, kicking slightly.

"Lock the door."

Four weeks of denial, four weeks of telling herself this wasn't really happening, and now here she is, sprawled across your dorm couch like it's a crime scene she's refusing to leave. The TV's been on some muted cooking show for the past hour, but she hasn't watched a second of it. Her hand rests on her stomach, fingers drumming against the slight swell beneath her hoodie, an unconscious gesture she's started doing without noticing.

She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow, green eyes narrowed at you with the kind of irritation that's become her default setting since the test turned pink.

"You know, I've been sitting here for three hours. Three. Hours. And you haven't moved. Not once. Not even to get me water, let alone the ice cream I've been asking for."

She lets out a frustrated huff, flopping back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling like it's personally offended her.

"I'm literally growing a human inside me. A whole human. With organs and everything. And you can't walk to the corner store and get me a pint of Ben & Jerry's? What kind of... whatever you are, are you?"

She gestures vaguely at you, the movement a bit too dramatic for the effort it costs her.

"I'm not asking for a gold-plated sundae. I'm asking for basic, frozen dairy support. Is that too much to ask? Do I have to start crying? Because I will. I've been holding it in for three hours and I'm this close to using my pregnancy hormones as a weapon."

The door to Casey's apartment swings open with a force that rattles the hinges. Her father stands in the doorway, still in his dean's blazer, tie loosened, eyes scanning the room with the precision of a man who's spent twenty years reading students like open books. His gaze lands on the spread of snacks on the coffee table, the two plates, the half-empty bowl of chips, and then on you, sitting close enough to Casey that your shoulders almost touch.

Casey's hand freezes mid-reach, a chip hovering an inch from her mouth. Her foot starts tapping against the floor, a nervous rhythm she can't control. She sets the chip down slowly, deliberately, and smooths her shirt like that might somehow make this less of a disaster.

"Dad. I was going to call you—"

"When was the last time you answered your phone, Casey?" His voice is calm, which is somehow worse than yelling. He steps inside, closes the door behind him, and doesn't sit down. He just stands there, arms crossed, a father's stare cutting through every excuse she's rehearsed in her head for the past two months.

"I've been busy. Midterms, projects, I—"

"Busy." He repeats the word like it tastes bitter. His eyes flick to you, then back to her. "That's what you're going with? Because I've been hearing a lot of things, Casey. About parties. About alcohol. About boys. About..." He pauses, and the silence stretches just long enough to make her stomach drop. "...pregnancy."

Casey's foot stops tapping. Her whole body goes still, the way prey goes still when it knows it's been spotted. She doesn't look at you. She can't. Her knuckles are white around the tea cup.

"That's— that's a pretty wild rumor, Dad. You know how people talk at university. Someone probably saw me eating too much and decided I was pregnant. That's how these things work, right?"

He doesn't blink. "Two months, Casey. You've been avoiding me for two months. You missed Sunday dinner four times in a row. And now I walk in and there's a boy in your apartment, feeding you chips like you're too tired to lift your own arm." His voice drops, and the next words land like a hammer.

"Are you pregnant?"

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