Roisin's POV

By the time I make it home, I'm shaking.

The door slams behind me, echoing through the quiet apartment. I press my palms to the wood, trying to breathe. The memory keeps replaying in flashes — the café, the dark suit, the way his eyes locked on mine as if no time had passed at all.

He didn't even look surprised.
More like... curious.

And somehow, that's worse.

I sink onto the couch, staring at nothing. It feels like the universe is mocking me — throwing him back into my life right when I'm barely holding it together.

Except I still don't even know his name.

Not his last name. Not his first. Nothing.

All I know is the shape of his mouth when he says don't go yet, the sound of his laugh against my neck, the way the skyline looked reflected in his windows. That's it.
That's all I took from the man whose child I might be carrying.

My stomach twists. I rest a hand against it, not because I feel anything there, but because it helps me breathe.

You can't think about him. Just focus on yourself. One step at a time.

⸻

The front door opens, breaking my thoughts.

Nichole bursts in with her usual energy, humming and balancing grocery bags. "Guess who scored the last croissants at Leona's—holy crap, Rose, what happened to you?"

I sit up too quickly. "Nothing. I'm fine."

Her brow furrows. "You're pale. And sweating. Spill it."

"I said I'm fine."

She sets the bags down, crosses her arms. "You've been off for weeks, and now you look like you just saw a ghost. I'm not buying it."

I stare down at my hands. "You remember that guy. From the club."

Her expression shifts instantly—smirk, mischief, all teeth. "Oh, we're finally talking about him! The mysterious stranger who turned my innocent best friend into Cinderella at midnight? What about him?"

I swallow. "He came into the café today."

The smirk vanishes. "Wait—what? Here? The same guy?"

I nod.

She drops onto the couch next to me, eyes wide. "Oh my God, fate just gave you a sequel. What did he say?"

"Nothing important."

"Don't give me that—what did he say?"

I laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. "He just said he didn't think he'd see me again."

"And?"

"And that's it."

Nichole frowns. "Okay, that's cryptic. You're seriously not telling me everything."

The silence stretches between us until it's unbearable. I feel her eyes on me, patient, waiting. Finally, I whisper, "I'm pregnant."

The words hang there, raw and real.

For a long moment, she doesn't move. Then she exhales slowly, as if she's afraid the air itself might break me. "Oh, Rose..."

Tears spill before I can stop them. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't even know his name. I don't know anything about him—where he lives, what he does. He was just—" my voice cracks, "—one night."

Nichole squeezes my hand, her thumb brushing over my knuckles. "You're not alone, okay? We'll figure this out together."

I shake my head. "I can't tell him. I don't even know how to find him. And even if I could—what would I say? 'Hey, remember me from that night? Surprise, you're going to be a dad'?"

The words taste bitter.

"Rose," Nichole says softly, "you don't have to decide anything today. Right now, you just need to see a doctor. Make sure you're okay."

I nod, wiping my face. "Yeah. I just... I need time."

She gives my hand one last squeeze. "You can have all the time you need. But promise me you'll call in sick tomorrow and we'll go together."

I hesitate, then whisper, "Okay."

⸻

That night, I lie awake staring at the ceiling. The city hums beyond the window, soft and distant. I close my eyes, and his face is there — half shadow, half memory.

Who are you?
And what am I supposed to do now?