Panic, Hormones, and Praposal

Nothing is going my way.

No matter how much I prayed, begged, or tried to bribe the universe with kale chips, instant noodles, and an impressive collection of sleepless nights—he remembered.

He actually remembered.

And now we're here.

Sitting in his changing room. Door completely shut. Alone. Trapped. Ambushed by fate.

Two chairs. One Bastien. One for me.

Facing each other like it's some high-budget crime thriller and I'm being interrogated for treason. Except instead of selling military secrets, I'm just a tired, nauseous, sleep-deprived fetus vessel with a clipboard and a highly questionable life.

And the silence?

The silence is criminal.

I can hear my own stomach gurgle like it's trying to communicate in Morse code. Possibly sending out an SOS. Possibly trying to make a deal with the baby for some goddamn crackers.

I'm starving. Starving. But I can't say anything.

Because Bastien—six feet of intimidation wrapped in sin and authority—is staring at my stomach like he's about to decode the Da Vinci code printed on my abdomen. His gaze moves slowly, deliberately, like a very judgmental X-ray machine powered by sheer will and eight-pack abs.

Alright. Okay. This is fine. I should say something. Anything. Be brave, Elio. Channel your inner bad bitch. Your inner Beyoncé. Your inner messy Netflix protagonist who always survives the first season.

"S-sir—"

"So…" he interrupts, his voice calm and smooth like melted caramel sliding over a knife, "is it really my child?"

…

I blinked.

My soul ascended. Floated above us. Took one look at this situation and face-palmed so hard the echo could be heard in another universe. Then it floated right back down and smacked me on the head like, "Well? You got yourself into this, dumbass."

He talks like I just casually fall onto people's dicks every day. Like, I schedule it into my Google Calendar between meetings.

I clutched my stomach protectively, glaring and squinting like a raccoon caught stealing snacks.

"I—it's my child," I snapped, high on righteous indigestion and caffeine withdrawal.

He blinked slowly, like a smug cat, and nodded. "Is that so?"

Then—then—he looked me right in the eye, calm as you please, like we're discussing weather instead of accidental babymaking, and said,"I know my question didn't sound good. That's why I'd like to rephrase it."

Oh, good. A rephrased emotional grenade.

I looked at him warily, arms tightening around my stomach like a flesh shield. "…What?"

"Am I the father of your child?"

I immediately looked away. Avoided his gaze like it was the sun and I was a cursed vampire. "...No."

Yeah. That's right. I lied. Boldly. Badly. With the conviction of a child holding a broken vase and saying the wind did it.

He leaned forward, arms bracing on his thighs, like he was trying to physically trap me in the gravity of his Very Serious Eye Contact™. His eyes locked onto mine with the intensity of a man watching a soap opera finale.

"Elio."

His voice wasn't loud.

But it had that tone. You know the one. The "dad found the vape pen" tone. The "I know what you did, and I'm just waiting for you to confess before I ruin your life" tone. The kind of voice that makes your spine sit up like it's been drafted into war.

And suddenly, my lies? They shriveled. Died. Went up in hormonal flames.

"Is it mine?" he asked again. Calm. Direct. Bullet to the soul.

The air punched out of my lungs like I'd just been slapped by divine karma.

My mouth opened. Nothing came out. My brain scrambled like eggs on a hot sidewalk, flipping through a catalog of excuses:

You're dreaming. This is a hallucination. You passed out in the break room.

It's a prank show. Any second now, a camera crew will burst in.

You're just bloated and dramatic, and the bean is actually a burrito.

I latched onto a classic. Old reliable.

"Define 'mine.'"

He gave me that look.

That really? look.

That "You better start talking before I call HR, your parents, and God" look.

"I mean, technically," I rushed, "it's mine. I'm the one carrying it. Like, in my actual body. Currently producing all its internal organs and eyeballs and whatever. So, in that way, it's mine-mine. Like, full custody. No visitation rights yet."

"Elio."

His voice again.

Like a whip wrapped in velvet.

"Okay!" I exploded. "Yes! Probably! I mean—it's like, ninety-nine percent yours. Unless I sleepwalked into someone else's bed in the same week—which I didn't, by the way—unless the hotel staff had a secret orgy suite I accidentally rolled into during a fever dream!"

He didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Didn't even breathe, probably.

Just sat there. Processing.

His expression didn't shift. No visible horror. No anger. No falling over in dramatic soap opera fashion. Nothing.

He just sat there, completely unreadable. Like a very attractive AI programmed to handle emotional crises with maximum restraint. Bastien 3000: Emotionally unavailable, heartbreak-proof, and now possibly the father of my unborn child.

And me?

I was about to melt into a hormonal puddle on the floor. A stress soup. Equal parts shame, nausea, and secondhand embarrassment—from myself. My brain was trying to eject from my skull like a floppy disk. Remember those? Yeah. Neither do I. Because I wasn't alive back then, and now apparently, I'm too alive. With child.

I glanced at him again.

He was thinking. Deeply. Like, staring-through-your-soul kind of thinking.

And I, being the absolute dumbass that I am, decided to fill the silence.

"You... don't have to worry about anything, sir," I said, trying to sound chill but probably sounding like a raccoon caught shoplifting.

I figured he was thinking about his reputation. The fans. The press. His abs being on the cover of every men's magazine ever. The headlines: BASTIEN CHEVALIER KNOCKED UP MYSTERIOUS MAN IN UNDISCLOSED ENCOUNTER – WORLD SHOOKETH.

He looked at me, eyes narrowing a little. "Bastien."

"What?" I blinked.

"Call me Bastien."

"...Is that important right now?" I asked, eyebrows climbing into my hairline.

"It is," he said with such conviction you'd think we were exchanging vows and not bodily fluids in a regrettably forgotten encounter.

I sighed, rubbing my forehead. "Okay, fine. Bastien. Happy?"

He nodded, dead serious.

"Anyway," I continued, waving my clipboard like a pathetic white flag. "You don't have to worry. I can raise the baby alone. I won't tell anyone it's yours. I swear. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a—whatever—just relax. This doesn't have to affect your career."

There. I said it.The noble sacrifice. The single parent speech.Cue applause. Cue the sad solo violin.

But instead of relief, he just looked at me like I was the one missing something.

"It is mine, though," he said simply.

I blinked. "Huh?"

"I am the father of the child."

The way he said it, so casual, so certain, like duh, made my brain stutter.

"So… Elio…" he began, his voice suddenly softer.

I stared. Why did he stop? What was happening now? Oh. He didn't know my last name. How romantic.

"It's Elio Conti," I said, like I was introducing myself to a funeral director.

He nodded. And then—

"Let's get married."

...…

......

"Excuse me?"

"I said," he repeated, dead serious, "Let's. Get. Married. Elio Conti."

MY BRAIN BUFFERED FOR THREE SECONDS. FULL SPINNING WHEEL OF DEATH. SYSTEM ERROR. EMOTIONAL WINDOWS 98.

I gaped at him. "WHATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT?!"