Raven
The sound of the bike comes before I see him. That low, steady rumble rolling up the drive makes my heart jump into my throat.
My palm presses flat against my stomach, instinctive, protective.
It's ridiculous. There's no proof. No reason to believe anything yet. But when the front door opens, I'm already moving toward him before I can stop myself.
He steps in holding a small white bag.
“Three?” I say, peeking inside.
He shrugs. “You don’t just buy one of these.”
A smile pulls at my mouth. “You Google that?”
“Yeah,” he admits. “It said most people grab a couple. Just in case.”
That makes me laugh. “You really did your homework.”
“If we’re doing this,” he says evenly, “we’re doing it right.”
He looks so sure. So ready.
And somehow that makes me braver.
We’re doing this.
I take the bag from him and head toward the bathroom before I can overthink it. The door clicks shut behind me. The boxes sit on the counter, unopened, and I stare at them for a second.
This wasn’t on my card. Not circled on a calendar and not penciled into some careful plan. And yet suddenly it’s the only thing that matters.
My periods have never been predictable. I’ve skipped months before and then had two in a row. Stress throws it off. Travel throws it off. Existing seems to throw it off.
But this feels different.
My hands aren’t as steady as I pretend they are as I open the first test.
This part is clinical. Instructions. Timing. Waiting. I move through each step carefully like my precision might influence the outcome.
When it’s done, I set the test on the counter and start a three-minute timer on my phone and force myself not to hover.
The mirror catches my reflection. Nothing looks different. Same woman. Same body I've lived in for years.
Still, I turn sideways and lift my shirt. My gaze settles on the gentle curve of my stomach, and for just a second, I imagine I can see something different.
It's too early, I tell myself. Still, hope finds its way in.
I rest my palm there again.
A baby. Not just any baby, our baby.
My throat tightens as I picture Sam’s face shift from certainty to joy. His hand on my stomach at night as he talks to our unborn child. I picture a small crib in the corner of our room. Tiny socks in the laundry.
My phone chimes and I look down at the plastic test.
One line.
I pick it up and turn it slightly like the angle might matter.
Maybe I didn’t wait long enough. Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab the second one.
“I have to be thorough,” I mutter to myself.
Three minutes later, I look down. One line.
By the time I’m opening the third, I’m almost laughing. Who buys multiple tests and keeps taking them like the first two might be lying?
The third confirms it. They’re all negative.
I sit down on the edge of the tub and stare at the three of them lined up on the counter.
This doesn’t make sense. I feel different—I know I do. Maybe it’s too early. I don’t even know exactly when I’m late. I just know it’s been a while.
I swallow over the lump forming in my throat and stand, gathering the tests before I lose my nerve.
When I open the door, he’s right there. Waiting. He looks at my face first. Not the tests. That undoes me a little.
“They’re all negative,” I say quietly.
If he’s disappointed, he doesn’t let it show.
“How far along would we even be?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
He nods slowly. “I mean… we haven’t exactly been trying. But we haven’t been preventing it either.”
That almost makes me smile.
He steps closer, takes the tests from my hand, and sets them aside like they’re temporary. “Then we don’t know anything yet.”
I search his face. He still believes it. Or at least he believes it’s too soon to stop hoping.
Strangely, so do I.
“Okay,” I say finally. “We wait.”
“A few days,” he agrees. “Then we test again.”
He cups my face, his thumbs warm against my cheeks. “We’re not in a rush,” he says quietly. “If it’s meant to be, it’ll be.”
I lean into his hands before I can stop myself. “I thought I felt different,” I admit.
“You probably do,” he says without hesitation. “Your body knows before a test does.”
That settles somewhere deep.
He kisses my forehead like this isn’t a setback, like it’s just a step.
“Come here,” he murmurs, drawing me into him.
His arms wrap around me, solid and sure, and I let myself believe what he does.
Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe in a few days, there will be two lines instead of one.
For now, that’s enough.