9. Athena #2
Again.
The word lands and sits there. I try to swallow and my throat refuses to cooperate. “You’re talking about Nate’s mother,” I say quietly.
Nathan’s gaze hardens. “I’m talking about a pattern. I’m talking about people who smile while they set traps, then pretend you’re a monster when you refuse to step into them.”
I stare at him and feel my face heat, then cool, then heat again. The cruelty isn’t in volume. It’s in how final he sounds, in how easily he can make women the villain in a story where he’s the victim.
I take a slow breath and try to keep my voice from shaking. “What if it was the right person,” I ask. “What if it wasn’t a trap.”
Nathan’s eyes lift, sharp and direct. “Athena.” My name comes out as a warning. “Be clear about what you’re saying.”
I grip my water glass harder. “I’m asking a question.”
He leans forward slightly, forearms on the table now, attention locked. “Is something wrong?” he asks. “Are you telling me something.”
My heart bangs once, hard. My mouth opens and closes without sound. My brain throws images at me in rapid order. The test. The word. Nate’s threat. Nathan’s hands last night. Nathan’s face right now, closed off and cold.
He’s supposed to be safe.
He feels safe.
And now he’s telling me he doesn’t want to be a father and he thinks women use children as leverage.
I shake my head, too fast. “No,” I say, and I hate myself for it. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Nathan doesn’t look convinced. “You’re on the pill, right?”
“Yes,” I reply, then flinch internally at the word.
His eyes narrow slightly as he watches me. “Then what is this?”
I force myself to breathe evenly and keep my gaze on his. “I’ve been thinking about life,” I say, and it sounds pathetic the moment it leaves my mouth. “About what people want. About what happens when things change.”
Nathan sits back a fraction, and the edge in his expression doesn’t soften. “I’m going to be very clear. I don’t want to be a dad.”
The words hit so hard that my eyes water immediately. I blink and look down at my napkin before he can see the full reaction, then I press my fingertips to the table to keep my hands from shaking.
Nathan watches me in silence. He doesn’t reach across the table or touch me.
He just sits there with that controlled, ruthless honesty, and for the first time all day I don’t know what to do with my own body.
Dinner arrives in courses that taste like nothing.
Nathan eats with the same measured focus he brings to surgery, cutting his steak neatly, wiping his mouth once with the napkin, speaking only when required to answer the waiter.
I move food around my plate and take a few bites so it looks like effort, then I sip water to keep my throat from closing.
We don’t circle back.
He doesn’t soften his earlier statement or offer context. I don’t press, and I don’t confess. The table between us fills with everything we don’t say, and it makes the restaurant feel louder than it is.
When the check comes, Nathan covers it without looking at me for permission. He stands, pulls my chair back, and offers his hand as if we’re still the same people who walked in here two hours ago.
I take it, partly from habit and partly because my legs don’t feel reliable.
Outside, he walks me to the car and opens the door again. The ride back is quiet in a way that doesn’t feel peaceful. Nathan keeps his eyes on the road, and I keep my hands in my lap, fingers laced tightly enough that my knuckles ache.
Streetlights pass across his face in brief intervals.
He looks composed, but his silence isn’t gentle. It feels like he made a decision at that table and locked it into place.
We reach my building and he parks along the curb. The engine continues running while the dashboard glows faintly in the dark.
Nathan turns slightly in his seat.
“Athena,” he says.
I look at him, forcing my expression into something neutral.
He watches me for a moment.
“You’ve been holding something back all night,” he says quietly. “If you want to tell me something, tell me now.”
My heart stumbles.
There are ten different ways to answer that. None of them end clean. I picture his face again when he said he didn’t want to be a father, and the words tools and agendas echo like a bruise being pressed.
I swallow.
“I’m tired,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I just need to rest.”
Nathan’s eyes search mine. “That’s all.”
“Yes.”
He holds my gaze for another beat then nods once. His hand lifts slightly, like he might touch my cheek, then it drops back to the steering wheel instead.
“Alright,” he says. “Get inside.”
I reach for the door handle.
“Athena.”
I pause and look back.
His voice is lower now.
“If something is wrong, you don’t have to carry it alone.”
“I know,” I manage, then force the words out before I can stop myself. “Goodnight, Nathan.”
His expression shifts, restrained and unreadable. “Goodnight.”
I step out of the car and shut the door gently. Nathan waits until I’m inside the building before pulling away, his headlights sweeping across the lobby wall as he turns back into traffic.
Upstairs, my apartment feels too quiet.
I kick my shoes off and set my keys on the counter, then I stand in the middle of the living room without moving. My dress still clings to my skin. My makeup feels heavy. My whole body feels like it’s running on adrenaline and denial.
I change into a t-shirt and shorts then wash my face at the sink until my skin goes pink. When I catch my reflection, my eyes look too big in my face.
I climb into bed without turning on any extra lights.
The sheets are cool against my legs. My phone rests on the nightstand like a small bomb I keep pretending isn’t armed.
A vibration cuts through the quiet. I reach for it immediately.
Unknown number.
My heart skips a beat. I open the message thread to find a picture of Nathan and me at the restaurant. We’re seated close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes mine.
His hand is on my thigh under the table, fingers spread possessively against the fabric of my dress. My face is turned toward him, lips parted like I’m listening.
I stare at it, frozen. Within the next half-second, a text message follows.
If you want your baby to live, run.