*Chapter 7: His Doorstep*

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I placed my hand on my stomach, feeling the faintest flutter.

A quiet reminder. A secret forming beneath my skin.

Josh couldn't know—not yet.

Maybe not ever.

The weight of broken trust still hung between us like fog that refused to lift.

I turned the key in the ignition and drove home.

I needed to change.

Something looser. Something safer.

The baby bump wasn't visible yet, but knowing Josh, he'd pick up on even the subtlest change—the tiredness in my voice, the way I moved, the way I kept holding myself like something fragile lived inside me.

Because something did.

This was mine to protect. Ours... but still mine.

As I drove, the city moved in a blur of lights and noise I barely noticed. My mind was louder than anything outside the windows.

If I was going to face him, I needed to be unreadable. Cold if I had to.

Because he couldn't see how much I still cared.

And he *definitely* couldn't see what I was carrying now—not just the pain, but the life quietly growing inside me.

At home, I climbed the stairs slowly. Every step a quiet promise: protect what matters.

I dressed in dark, loose clothes. Hoodie pulled low. Hair tied back.

No makeup. No scent. No softness.

Just armor.

When I stepped out again, the sky had darkened to a deep charcoal blue.

Perfect. It matched my mood.

***

The street outside his building was quiet.

Same chipped blue paint on the stairs. Same broken porch light.

It used to feel like home here.

Now it just felt... haunted.

I sat in the car for a long moment, watching the light in his window.

He was home.

What would I even say?

Would I let him talk first?

Could I stand in front of him and *not* break?

I placed my hand on my stomach again.

A steadying gesture. A reminder of everything that had changed.

Then I stepped out.

Each footstep up the stairs echoed like a warning.

I knocked once. Firm.

No turning back now.

The door opened seconds later.

Josh.

Messy hair. Barefoot. Hoodie I once stole and never returned.

He looked... like he hadn't slept in days.

Good.

"Hey," he said softly.

I nodded. No smile. No warmth. Just breath.

He stepped aside.

"Come in?"

I walked past him—not because I forgave him.

But because I needed answers.

The inside smelled like old coffee and something like cinnamon. Familiar. Unsettling.

We stood in silence for a while.

He looked at me like he was trying to memorize something. Like he knew this might be the last time.

"Do you think..." he said slowly, "we could ever start again?"

The question hung between us, fragile and impossible.

I paused.

Not because I didn't know the answer.

But because I wanted him to feel the weight of it.

"Maybe," I said, voice low. "But not like this. Not with everything broken and buried. Not with secrets between us."

And definitely not while I'm carrying something you don't even know about.

I didn't say that part.

Some truths weren't ready to be shared.

I looked down, exhaled, then back up.

"I need time," I added. "And space. And honesty—real honesty."

Josh nodded slowly. "I can give you that."

We both knew he was lying. Or trying to believe he wasn't.

I turned to leave, hand already on the doorknob.

"I'll let you know if I ever believe that," I said.

And then I left.

Not whole.

Not broken.

But walking forward.

And for tonight... that was enough.

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