“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.
