Chapter 17: Cotton Clad Confessions.

Chapter 17: Cotton Clad Confessions

It started with a missed period.

Then another.

And just like that, my world tilted on its axis.

I sat in the bathroom, staring at the stick on the edge of the sink like it was some kind of cruel joke. But the line didn't fade. It stayed there — bold, undeniable.

Pregnant.

Or maybe not.

I bought three more tests.

All said the same thing.

I should've called Elijah right away.

But instead, I panicked.

Because I wasn't ready. Not really. Not after everything — the heartbreaks, the betrayal, the years I spent learning how to love myself before I could even think about loving someone else completely.

What if this was too much for him?

What if he ran?

What if I ended up alone again?

So I did what I always do when I'm scared — I tried to push him away.

I stopped answering his calls. Gave short, clipped replies to his texts. When he showed up at my door, I gave him a smile that didn't reach my eyes and told him I needed space.

He didn't push.

Not at first.

But Elijah isn't the kind of man who lets go easily.

Three days later, after I still hadn't told him the truth, he came over uninvited.

I opened the door, and he didn't even say hello.

"Talk to me," he said.

"I'm fine," I lied.

He stepped inside anyway.

That's when I broke.

The words spilled out — messy, fast, full of fear.

"I might be pregnant."

Silence.

Thick as Georgia heat in July.

Then he pulled me into his arms and held me so tight I almost forgot how to breathe.

"Okay," he whispered. "We'll figure it out. Together."

But I wasn't done unraveling.

I reached into my drawer — stupidly, foolishly — and pulled out something I thought would make me feel better. A tiny pair of baby girl granny panties I'd impulsively bought from an online boutique.

They were soft. Sweet. Ridiculous.

And when Elijah saw them, something in his face changed.

He looked… hurt.

"Why would you buy those already?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know," I admitted. "I guess… I was trying to imagine it. What it would be like."

"But we haven't even talked about it yet," he said, voice low. "You're already planning a future without checking if I'm on board?"

"It wasn't like that—"

"Yes, it was," he snapped. "You shut me out, Tubo. You made decisions in your head while I was sitting here wondering why you suddenly didn't want me around."

I flinched.

He was right.

And then it happened — our first real fight.

Words flew faster than reason.

He accused me of pushing him away instead of letting him in.

I accused him of acting like I couldn't handle this on my own.

He said I didn't trust him.

I said I didn't want to need anyone that much again.

And then he stormed out.

Slammed the door behind him.

Left me standing there, clutching a pair of baby panties like they could somehow fix what I'd broken.

For three days, he ghosted me.

No calls.

No texts.

Just silence.

And I realized something terrifying:

This time, I wasn't running from him.

I was running from me .

From the truth I wasn't ready to face.

And for the first time since we met, I was afraid he wouldn't come back.