Chapter Seven #3
Jasper nodded again, accepting the boundary without pushing. “That works,” he said. “And whatever the test says, we’ll figure it out. Together, if you want. Or I can just point you toward the right resources and step back. Your call.”
The offer hung between us—support without pressure, help without strings. The kind of thing I’d never asked for and wasn’t sure how to accept.
“Thanks,” I said, the word inadequate for what he was offering. “I’ll let you know what it says.”
Jasper smiled, the expression warming his whole face. “I’m here either way,” he said. “Whatever you need.”
We sat at the table in silence for a moment, the bread and soup between us going cold. Outside, the afternoon was fading toward evening—light slanting through the kitchen windows, turning the hardwood floors gold, then amber, then the deep brown that meant sunset was twenty minutes away.
“I should get back,” Jasper said finally, pushing his chair away from the table. “Decker’s expecting me for dinner. But call me, okay? Whatever the test says. Day or night, I mean it.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and walked him to the door. At the threshold, he turned back, his expression serious.
“Whatever’s happening,” he said, his voice quiet, “it’s not something you have to handle alone. You know that, right? There are people who care about you. Who want to help.”
The words landed somewhere beneath my sternum, making it hard to breathe for a second. I nodded again, not trusting my voice, and watched as Jasper made his way down the drive to where his truck was parked.
The bread and soup were still on the table when I went back inside, untouched but somehow less intimidating than they had been.
I moved them to the refrigerator with careful attention, then stood at the kitchen window, watching the light fade from gold to amber to the deep purple that preceded full dark.
A home test. Then the clinic if needed. Simple steps in a process that shouldn’t apply to me.
I’d go to town tomorrow, I decided. Pick up the test, follow the directions, get a definitive answer one way or the other. Then I’d know, and knowing was always better than wondering.
Always had been. Always would be.
Except this time, for the first time in thirty years, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to know the answer.
* * * *
The home test was positive. Two solid lines, no ambiguity, the kind of result that came with instructions specifically designed to prevent user error.
I stared at it on the bathroom counter for longer than I’ll ever admit, then picked up my phone, scrolled to Jasper’s number, and put it down again without dialing. This wasn’t a conversation for the phone. This wasn’t a conversation I was ready to have at all.
So instead of calling Jasper, I drove myself to the clinic in Billings, told the receptionist I needed to see a doctor, and sat in the waiting room with my hands folded in my lap and my face arranged into something that wasn’t panic.
The clinic was quiet for a Tuesday afternoon—just me and an older man reading a magazine in the corner, plus a nurse behind the desk typing something into a computer with methodical attention.
The walls were beige, the chairs were blue, the magazines on the side table were six months out of date. Normal doctor’s office stuff. The kind of environment designed to be as unremarkable as possible.
I filled out the paperwork with a hand that didn’t shake—name, address, medical history, reason for visit. Under “symptoms,” I wrote “nausea, fatigue” and left it at that. Under “possible causes,” I left a blank space that seemed to grow larger the longer I looked at it.
The nurse called my name twenty minutes later.
I followed her down a hallway that smelled like disinfectant and floor wax, into an exam room with pale green walls and a poster of the human digestive system.
She took my vitals with practiced efficiency—blood pressure, temperature, pulse—then handed me a paper gown and a plastic cup.
“The doctor will be with you shortly,” she said, already moving toward the door. “You can leave the urine sample in the cabinet when you’re done.”
The door closed behind her with a soft click. I changed into the gown—paper crinkling, ties too short, the whole thing designed for someone half my size—then used the bathroom attached to the exam room.
The plastic cup was cold in my hand, the process awkward in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I left the sample in the designated cabinet, then sat on the exam table with my feet dangling and my hands folded in my lap, waiting for whatever came next.
The doctor arrived ten minutes later—a woman in her forties with short dark hair and a no-nonsense expression. She introduced herself, shook my hand with a firm grip, then pulled up my chart on the computer in the corner.
“So,” she said, her eyes on the screen. “Nausea and fatigue. Any other symptoms?”
I shook my head. “No fever, no pain, no other physical issues.”
She nodded, making a note on the chart. “And when did the symptoms start?”
“Four days ago. The nausea came first, then the fatigue.”
Another note. “Any changes in diet or routine? New medications? Recent travel?”
“No,” I said. “Nothing changed. Except—“ I hesitated, then forced myself to continue. “Except I had a positive home test this morning. Pregnancy test.”
The doctor’s expression didn’t change—no surprise, no judgment, just the careful neutrality of someone who’d heard it all before. “I see,” she said. “And when was your last period?”
The question landed between us like a stone. I stared at her, trying to work out if she’d misheard me, if there was some other explanation for the question. “I don’t have periods,” I said finally. “I’m male.”
Now her expression did change—a slight raising of the eyebrows, a reassessment. “I apologize,” she said. “The chart didn’t specify. Let me order a blood test to confirm the home result, and we can go from there.”
She left the room, closing the door behind her with the same soft click. I sat on the exam table with my paper gown crinkling under my palms and tried to make sense of what was happening.
Twenty minutes later, she was back, a folder in her hand and a nurse behind her with what looked like ultrasound equipment. “The blood test is positive,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “You’re pregnant, Mr. Reyes. About eight weeks along, based on the hormone levels.”
I opened my mouth to tell her she had to be mistaken, that what she was saying wasn’t physically possible, that there had to be some other explanation for the test results. The words wouldn’t come. Instead, I heard myself say, “That’s not possible. I’m an alpha.”
The doctor’s expression didn’t change. “I understand that’s what you believe,” she said. “But the bloodwork doesn’t lie. Your hormone levels are consistent with early pregnancy in an omega carrier.”
Omega. The word hung in the air between us, too definitive to take back, too certain to qualify.
I’d been an alpha my entire life—had the physical build, the dominant nature, the designation confirmed by three separate tests before I was ten.
Had built my understanding of myself around that certainty for thirty years.
Had never once questioned it until this moment, watching the doctor’s face as she absorbed my response without visible reaction.
“I’d like to do an ultrasound,” she said after a moment. “To confirm the pregnancy and get a more accurate timeline. Is that alright with you?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and lay back on the exam table as directed.
The nurse helped position me, then applied gel to my abdomen—cold, slippery, an invasion of a space I’d never thought to protect.
The doctor moved the wand across my skin with practiced attention, her eyes on the screen beside the table.
“There it is,” she said, her voice warming with what sounded like genuine pleasure. “Right there. See the heartbeat?”
She turned the screen toward me, pointing to a small, unmistakable shape tucked into the gray landscape of my insides. A peanut with a flutter in the center—too small to be real, too definite to deny.
“That’s your baby,” the doctor said, her voice gentle. “About eight weeks along, developing exactly as it should be. Strong heartbeat, good positioning, everything looks perfect.”
I stared at the screen, unable to look away from the tiny, perfect shape that was somehow part of me. A baby. My baby. A physical impossibility that was currently displayed in living grayscale on the exam room monitor.
“I don’t understand,” I said finally, the words coming out rougher than I’d intended. “I’ve been an alpha my entire life. My parents had me tested. Three separate times. The results were definitive.”
The doctor was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful.
“Designation can be complicated,” she said carefully.
“There are cases where someone presents as one designation, but has the biological characteristics of another. It’s rare, but it happens.
Usually there’s a genetic component—something that runs in the family, often on the mother’s side. ”
My mother. Who’d always insisted I took after her side of the family. Who’d never quite met my eyes when talking about my alpha status. Who’d changed the subject whenever my father brought up the tests, the results, the absolute certainty that I was exactly what he’d wanted me to be.
A lie. Thirty years of my life, built on a foundation that had never existed.
“The follow-up bloodwork should give us more information,” the doctor continued. “I’ve ordered a full hormonal panel and genetic screening. We’ll know more in a few days.”
She printed the ultrasound image—the tiny peanut with its fluttering heart now captured on glossy paper—and handed it to me with careful attention.
“Your next appointment is in two weeks,” she said.
“We’ll check your progress and answer any questions you have.
In the meantime, prenatal vitamins, no alcohol, and try to eat small, frequent meals to help with the nausea. ”
I nodded, unable to process the practical details when my entire understanding of myself was coming apart at the seams. The doctor seemed to sense this—her expression softened, her voice gentled.
“It’s a lot to take in,” she said. “I’ve written down the number for a counselor who specializes in designation issues. She’s very good—helps people process exactly this kind of situation. No pressure, but the option’s there if you want it.”
I took the card she offered, folded it into my pocket without looking at it, then changed back into my clothes while she and the nurse stepped out. The paper gown went into the trash with a rustle that seemed too loud in the quiet room.
My clothes felt strange against my skin—like they belonged to someone else, someone who hadn’t just had their entire life upended in the space of twenty minutes.
The drive home took three hours. I drove with the windows down despite the November chill, cold air hitting my face as the valley spread out around me—mountains to the east, pasture to the west, sky overhead so clear I could pick out individual stars as the light faded.
The ultrasound image sat on the passenger seat, face down. I didn’t look at it. Didn’t need to. The shape was burned into my memory—that tiny, perfect peanut with its fluttering heart, the physical evidence of something I still couldn’t quite believe was real.
By the time I reached the farmhouse, the sky was fully dark—just the distant glow of Rawley’s place visible across the pasture, and beyond it, the black that meant mountains rather than open sky.
I parked in my usual spot, killed the engine, then sat in the driver’s seat with my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the dark outline of the house.
My house. The place I’d built with my own hands, on land I’d bought with money I’d saved from twenty years of careful living. The place where, until four days ago, I’d known exactly who I was and what I was doing.
Now I was someone else—or rather, I was who I’d always been, but with a different name for it. An omega, not an alpha. A person who could get pregnant, not a person who couldn’t. Someone with a completely different set of possibilities than the ones I’d spent thirty years accounting for.
I got out of the truck eventually, the ultrasound image in my pocket, and walked to the porch instead of going inside. The night was cold—proper Montana November cold, the kind that turned your breath to fog and numbed your fingertips through gloves—but I barely felt it.
Just sat on the top step with my elbows on my knees and my eyes on the valley, and tried to make sense of what had happened.
Somewhere in the world, Cruz was on a contract I wasn’t cleared to know about—running comms for Sterling’s team, jumping out of planes, doing whatever needed doing to keep the people he cared about safe.
The only person alive who could be responsible for the small peanut-shaped fact currently sitting in my pocket.
I hadn’t told him. Didn’t know if I was going to. Didn’t know how to begin that conversation, or whether he’d even want it, or what it would mean for the thing between us we had never once named out loud.
A baby changed everything. A designation that wasn’t what I’d thought changed even more. Together, they pulled the foundation out from under a life I’d spent thirty years arranging into something manageable and solitary and my own.
Now it was none of those things. Now it was something I couldn’t recognize, built on truths I was still learning to name.
I sat with all of it in the dark until the valley went fully black, until the cold seeped through my jacket and into my bones, until the only thing I knew for certain was that whatever came next would bear almost no resemblance to what had come before.
Then I went inside, locked the door behind me, and started figuring out how to live in a world where nothing was what I’d thought it was.