Denial, Sweat, and Maybe a Little Vomit

"For some reason," he murmured, eyes scanning my face, "I feel like I've met you somewhere before."

OH. FUCK. NO.

"Nope!" I said, Voice two octaves too high. "You must be confusing me with someone else. I just have one of those faces! You know, like… generic! Very standard-issue human!"

Bastien blinked. Slowly. Like he was mentally Googling me in real time.

Sweat trickled down my back like a tiny regret waterfall. I was ninety percent sure I was going to pass out or confess to something random like stealing my neighbor's basil plant.

"I don't forget faces," he said calmly, but with that movie-star intensity that made people spontaneously combust. "Especially not ones like yours."

OH. MY. GOD.

Is that flirting??

Is that a memory??

Is that my funeral procession I hear playing in the distance?

"Haha!" I laughed like a malfunctioning robot. "You must meet so many people. You're famous. I'm… uh, barely a mere teacher. Anyway! Shall we go over your schedule for today, sir?"

I pulled out my clipboard like it was a holy artifact that could banish awkward tension.

"Right, so, you have a Q&A session with the students at ten, then a fan signing event, then lunch at the cafeteria—and after that, some one-on-one mentoring with selected kids."

I dared to peek up at him.

He was still staring at me like I was a puzzle with one obvious missing piece. My uterus whimpered. My baby did interpretive dance.

"Are you sure we haven't met?" he asked again.

"I'm sure!" I said—too fast. "I mean, unless we suddenly met at some dingy bars and drank vodka-cranberries at midnight, then no, we haven't met!"

WHY DID I SAY THAT?

WHY DID I SAY THAT OUT LOUD?

That wasn't even a lie! That was way too specific! Now it sounded exactly like something that happened—which it DID, but still!

Bastien's brows lifted, amused. "Vodka-cranberries?"

I slapped my clipboard to my face like it could physically delete the past five seconds from existence.

"Schedule! Yes. Let's go back to the schedule!" I barked, way too loud, like I was leading a battalion of embarrassment. "Where the hell is your manager, by the way? Why am I doing this? This is above my underpaid emotional pay grade."

And then I saw it.

HE SMIRKED.

And that smirk? That smirk was a war crime. That smirk was the exact one that ruined my entire reproductive strategy approximately nine months ago.

I was going to die.

"Right," I croaked, dragging in a wheezy breath that sounded like I'd just been lightly strangled by fate. "Let's… let's head to the auditorium."

I turned around like a panicked flamingo on rollerblades, limbs flailing, dignity in shreds.

Behind me, I heard him chuckle.

He chuckled. Laughed. At me.

My baby—who was currently a bean-sized blob floating in a hormonal soup—was already ashamed of me. I could feel it. Deep in my uterus. Pure judgment.

Everything else after that? Smooth. Or, well—pretend-smooth. Bastien walked the halls like a confident god on vacation. The students gasped. The teachers swooned. And me?

I was trying not to puke on my shoes.

My stomach was doing backflips. My mouth tasted like stale regret and unbrushed teeth even though I definitely brushed. I kept sipping water like hydration could solve emotional trauma. Spoiler: it couldn't.

I clutched my clipboard like it was a holy relic and whispered to myself, "You're fine. You're doing amazing, sweetie."

Then I gagged into a trash can in the hallway like a raccoon with food poisoning.

"Ghost," I muttered. "This is disgusting. I can't even vomit properly. I'm so tired and pregnant and betrayed by my own digestive system."

But of course, the moment I pulled my head out of the trash can, wiping my mouth and the remnants of dignity off my face—

Bastien was standing there. Watching.

He stared at me with a half-shocked, half-worried expression and said, "Wh—what did you just say?"

I straightened up like I hadn't just been dry-heaving into a school trash can like a tragic possum. I forced a smile so wide my cheeks started cramping. "Oh! Mr. Bastien! Did you need something? Should I bring you some drink? Coffee? Ju—"

He didn't blink.

"Are you pregnant?"

…......…

I froze mid-professional-smile. My clipboard slipped an inch in my hands. Time slowed. A fly buzzed dramatically past my ear like we were in the middle of a soap opera.

I let out the fakest chuckle known to mankind. "Whaaaat? Mr. Bastien, ha-ha, silly you! Pregnant? Me? That's such a… creative question! You must've misheard something."

But he took a slow step forward, eyes narrowing—not menacing, just focused, like he was solving a Sudoku puzzle labeled 'ELIO: THE MYSTERY'.

"You said," he repeated slowly, "'I'm so tired and pregnant and betrayed by my own digestive system.'"

FUCK.

I laughed again, louder and more unhinged this time. "Nooo, no, no, no. I said—I said I'm tired and… peppermint. I'm tired and peppermint. Very normal. Very sane. Sometimes I just suck on mints too hard and—y'know."

Bastien blinked. "Peppermint?"

"Yep," I nodded frantically, already moonwalking away from him. "Pregnant? Ha! Nooope. Definitely just got a case of Menthol Madness. You know, very trendy these days. And besides, I'm a beta! Betas can't get pre—"

"ELIO!!! HOW CAN YOU BE PREGNANT WITH BASTIEN CHEVALIER'S CHIL—"

WHACK.

I lunged across the hallway like a flying squirrel and slapped my hand over Giulia's mouth just as she skidded around the corner like a dramatic telenovela auntie.

She groaned in pain. I screamed.

"SHUT UP!" I whisper-screamed.

I didn't mean to hit her that hard. But the folder in my hand had momentum, and Giulia stumbled back with a dramatic groan like I'd just slapped her into a telenovela.

"What the hell, Elio?" she hissed, rubbing her forehead. "What is wrong with—"

"SHUT. UP." I muttered through clenched teeth, a smile plastered on my face like I wasn't dying inside. "He's right behind me."

"…Who's right behi—"

"So… You're really pregnant?"

That smooth, baritone voice from behind me made my soul leave my body.

I turned slowly. Like horror-movie-slow.

Bastien was standing there. Calm. Tall. Terrifyingly observant.

"Is that my child?" he asked, stepping closer.

I laughed. I shouldn't have. But it was that kind of laugh—the kind that comes when your brain breaks. "Wh-what are you talking about, sir? Me? Preg—pregnant? That's—how—what—ha—HA—" I was spiraling.

He stared.

He stared.

I added desperately, "I met you first time; I can't possibly—"

"We slept together." His voice was calm. Too calm. "I remember you."

My heart stopped. Not metaphorically. I think I flatlined for three full seconds.

Giulia covered her face like she was witnessing a car crash in slow motion.

I… was already dead inside, and my whole life flashed before my eyes. My past sins. My student loans. That one time I tried to microwave a boiled egg.

That was it.

That was the moment I knew:I was totally, irrevocably, and gloriously fucked.