POV Adrian
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the bathroom door like it holds the secrets to the fucking universe.
Which, honestly, it might.
The pregnancy test is in there with Emilia—the one she asked me to pick up this morning with the kind of calm that suggested she was requesting coffee instead of potentially life-altering medical supplies.
“Just grab one from the pharmacy downstairs,” she’d said over breakfast, not making eye contact. “The expensive kind. Not the dollar store version.”
“Because accurate results require premium pricing?” I’d asked, trying for lightness while my brain performed gymnastics around the implications.
“Because if I’m going to find out my entire life is changing, I want reliable data.”
Classic Emilia logic. Approach potential life-changing events like quarterly projections—gather the best information, analyze thoroughly, make strategic decisions based on facts.
Except now she’s been in that bathroom for twenty minutes, and I’m sitting here feeling like I might spontaneously combust from anxiety mixed with something that feels dangerously close to excitement.
The signs have been obvious for days. The morning sickness she kept attributing to grief. The exhaustion that went beyond what losing her father would explain. The way she turned green at the funeral reception when someone walked by with a plate of salmon.
But the moment I really knew was yesterday, when she got dizzy during the funeral and grabbed my arm like she might fall over. Not emotional dizziness—physical, biological dizziness that made her look confused and slightly panicked.
“Adrian,” she’d whispered, “something’s wrong with me.”
Nothing’s wrong. Something’s very, very right, if my suspicions are correct.
Which is terrifying and incredible simultaneously.
I’ve never wanted kids. Never thought about kids. The idea of tiny humans depending on me for survival seemed like a recipe for catastrophic failure.
But sitting here, potentially moments away from finding out Emilia’s carrying my child, I realize I want this more than I’ve wanted anything in my entire fucking life.
I want to teach someone to ski badly and laugh when they face-plant in snow. Want to explain why corporate mergers are boring but necessary. Want to watch Emilia handle parenthood with the same brutal competence she brings to everything else.
I want this. Which is crazy because we’ve been “real” for a couple of weeks, and normal people don’t plan pregnancies during fake engagements that turned into whatever the hell we’re calling this relationship.
But nothing about us has been normal. Why start now?
The bathroom door’s been closed for twenty-three minutes. How long do pregnancy tests take? Are there instructions? Should I google this?
I’m reaching for my phone when I hear it.
A squeal. High-pitched, surprised, definitely female, possibly hysterical.
I’m off the bed and across the room before my brain catches up to my body, pushing through the bathroom door like the place might be on fire.
Emilia’s sitting on the toilet—fully clothed, thank fuck—holding a small plastic stick in her shaking hand. Her face is pale, eyes wide, mouth slightly open like she’s forgotten how to breathe.
“Em?” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “What does it say?”
She just stares at me, then back at the test, then at me again.
I cross the bathroom in two steps and gently take the test from her trembling fingers.
Two lines. Clear, unmistakable, definitively positive.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
And then I’m crying. Actually fucking crying, which I haven’t done since I was twelve and broke my arm falling off my bike.
But these aren’t pain tears or grief tears—these are the kind of tears that happen when your entire world reorganizes itself around something beautiful and terrifying and completely unexpected.
“Adrian?” Emilia’s voice is small, uncertain. “Are you okay?”
Instead of answering, I pull her up from the toilet and wrap my arms around her so tightly she probably can’t breathe. She’s still shaking, but now I’m shaking too, both of us holding onto each other like we might disappear if we let go.
“We’re having a baby,” I whisper into her hair.
“We’re having a baby,” she confirms, and her voice cracks on the last word.
I pull back just enough to look at her face—really look at her.
She’s scared and amazed and probably processing a thousand different emotions simultaneously. But there’s something else in her expression, something that looks like the same desperate joy that’s currently overwhelming my entire nervous system.
“I love you,” I tell her, because it feels important to say that before I say what I’m about to say.
“I love you too.”
“Emilia.” I frame her face with my hands, thumbs brushing away tears I didn’t realize she was crying. “This is completely insane timing, and we’re probably going to be terrible at this, and I have no idea how to be a father or a husband or anything resembling a functional adult.”
“Adrian—”
“But I know I want to figure it out with you. I want to raise this kid with you. I want to wake up every morning for the next fifty years knowing you’re the first thing I see.”
She’s staring at me like I might be having some kind of emotional breakdown, which is fair because I probably am.
“What are you saying?”
I drop to one knee in my own bathroom, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, both of us tear-streaked and overwhelmed, holding a positive pregnancy test like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
“I’m saying marry me. Not because our fathers want a merger, not because it makes good business sense, not because you’re pregnant.” I take her free hand, and it’s warm and steady despite everything. “Marry me because I can’t imagine my life without you in it. Marry me because you make me want to be better than I am. Marry me because I love you more than I knew was possible.”
The bathroom goes quiet except for the sound of both of us breathing hard.
“That’s not a question,” she finally says.
“Emilia Hart, will you marry me?”
Her smile starts small and grows until it takes over her entire face.
“Yes, you ridiculous man. Yes.”