Raven
Morning comes in soft and gray. Rain taps lightly against the windows, steady and unhurried. It’s not a storm—just a slow, persistent fall. The room carries the faint scent of damp earth drifting in through the cracked window.
For a few seconds, I don’t move. I lie there, suspended between sleep and knowing.
Sam’s hand is still resting low on my stomach. His palm spreads wide, like even in sleep he’s guarding something.
I can feel the weight of him everywhere. His thigh pressed along mine, his breath slow and warm against the back of my neck, the steady rise and fall of his chest behind me.
The rain keeps falling.
Soft.
Patient.
I press my hand over his, anchoring myself to the moment. If I close my eyes hard enough, I can almost see it months from now, looking back at this exact second and knowing this was when everything changed.
His thumb shifts beneath my palm. I swallow around the sudden tightness in my throat.
This is ours.
This quiet. This bed. This small house filled with so much love.
I don’t want to rush it. But I don’t want to wait either.
Carefully, I roll over, turning toward him. His eyes open almost immediately.
“It’s morning,” I say softly.
He searches my face, reading everything I don’t say. “You ready?” he asks.
“I am.”
He pushes himself up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. There’s tension there now. Not fear. Just anticipation wound tight beneath his calm.
The rain sounds louder when I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cool beneath my feet.
Sam stands when I do. We walk close enough that his chest brushes my shoulder as we move across the hall.
Neither of us talks. There’s nothing left to say.
The bathroom light flicks on, too bright against the gray morning. I blink, steadying myself against the counter.
This is it.
My hands are steady as I reach for the test waiting in the drawer. That's how sure I am.
The instructions stay folded inside the box. I've done this enough times to know the routine without looking. I leave the test face down on the counter, set a three-minute timer on my phone, and place it beside the sink.
Sam leans one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
The silence stretches. I focus on the sound of the rain. On my breathing. Until the timer goes off.
Sam straightens as I walk over to the sink and flip the test over without hesitation.
“It’s negative,” I say. The words feel wrong in my mouth. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Sam closes the space between us.
I shake my head slowly. “I was sick last night.”
The memory is still fresh in my mind.
“I don’t just throw up for no reason,” I continue, quieter now. “And I still feel it.” I press my palm low against my stomach. “There’s this…” I hesitate searching for the right word. “Heaviness.”
He watches me carefully, eyes steady, absorbing every word.
“I’ve never felt that before.”
He reaches for the test and sets it aside without looking at it again, like it doesn’t get the final say.
“Then we call the doctor,” he says.
"Okay," I whisper.
Neither of us moves.
The rain keeps falling against the window.
I look down at the test one last time.
One line.
It has to be wrong.