POV Noelle
*Four months later*
Lucille Alexander is dead, and honestly? Good fucking riddance.
Dad handled the cleanup with his usual efficiency—one phone call, some paperwork that probably doesn’t exist. And suddenly the psychotic nurse who tried to ruin my life is nothing more than an unfortunate “accident” involving hospital stairs and gravity.
Problem solved, Morris family style.
The real surprise came when Dad actually gave Owen his blessing. Well, “blessing” might be generous. More like a grudging acknowledgment that Owen isn’t completely worthless.
“Don’t embarrass me,” Dad had grunted, pointing a finger at Owen like he was training a particularly dangerous dog. “And if you break her heart, I’ll feed you to my business associates piece by piece. Starting with your fingers.”
“Understood,” Owen had replied, completely unfazed by threats of dismemberment.
“I’m serious. I know people who make problems disappear.”
“I know. I used to be one of those people.”
Dad had actually smiled at that. Apparently shared criminal backgrounds are the foundation of all great father-son-in-law relationships.
Now we’re on our first actual date, and it feels surreal in the best possible way. Nothing fancy—just burgers at this dive place Owen knows and wine on the rooftop of his apartment building.
No security detail, no watching over shoulders, no wondering if he’s only here because daddy’s paying him.
Just us. Finally.
“You realize this is probably the first normal date I’ve ever been on,” I tell him, stealing one of his fries.
“Normal?” Owen raises an eyebrow. “I literally killed someone for you last week.”
“That was business. This is a pleasure.”
“Fair point.”
My cheeks hurt from smiling, which is probably the weirdest problem I’ve ever had.
Owen’s got his arm around me, and I’m breathless from laughing at his stories about the world’s most incompetent criminals. Everything feels right in a way that’s almost terrifying.
Like the universe might be setting me up for a spectacular fall.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Owen says, pressing a kiss to my temple.
“I’m not thinking. I’m just enjoying the fact that no one’s trying to kill me.”
“Yet.”
“Optimist.”
We’re halfway through sharing some chocolate thing that probably has more calories than I should consume in a week when my stomach decides to stage a revolt.
One minute I’m laughing at Owen’s impression of his old boss, the next I’m bolting toward the bathroom like I’m training for the Olympics.
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting on the tile floor feeling like death warmed over, and Owen’s banging on the door like the building’s on fire.
“Are you okay?”
“I think the fries were bad,” I call back, which is a complete lie because the fries were perfect and we both know it.
But something tells me it wasn’t the fries.
Something tells me I’m about to have a really fucking inconvenient realization.
I send Owen to the corner store with a bullshit excuse about needing tampons, then spend twenty minutes staring at a pregnancy test like it’s going to magically change the laws of biology.
Two pink lines.
Two. Pink. Lines.
I stare at the stupid plastic stick until my eyes water, hoping maybe I’m hallucinating from stress or food poisoning or a delayed reaction to being kidnapped by a psychotic nurse.
But no. The lines stay pink. Mockingly, definitively pink.
My hands shake. My legs go numb. I slide down the bathroom wall until I’m sitting on the floor, knees hugged to my chest like I’m trying to physically hold myself together.
Pregnant.
I’m fucking pregnant.
At twenty-two years old, with a guy I’ve been officially dating for exactly three hours, carrying a baby conceived during what was technically a work-related relationship.
My father is going to murder us both.
Owen finds me there, curled up on his bathroom floor like some kind of existential crisis artwork.
“Hey.” He kneels in front of me, and his voice is gentle in that way that makes my chest tight. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t speak. Can’t form words around the enormous reality sitting in my throat like a boulder.
Instead, I hold out the test with shaking hands.
Owen takes it, stares at it for what feels like five years, and I watch his face cycle through confusion, understanding, and then something that might be panic.
This is it. This is where he runs.
This is where he remembers he’s thirty eight years old and doesn’t need a pregnant twenty-two-year-old complicating his life.
“Say something,” I whisper.
He looks at me for a long moment, then does something I absolutely don’t expect.
He smiles. Actually fucking smiles, like I just told him he won the lottery instead of accidentally got knocked up.
“I guess we’re having a baby, angel.”
Owen presses his forehead to mine, and his hands are steady when they frame my face. No panic, no regret, no running for the hills.
Just quiet acceptance and that stupid nickname that makes everything feel like it might actually be okay.
“Are you sure?” I ask, because someone needs to be the voice of reason here. “Because this is insane. We barely know each other. I’m twenty-two. You’re—”
“I’m sure.”
“But—”
“I love you, Noelle. I love you, and I want this. Whatever this is.”