Morning arrives too bright, too soon.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, hand pressed flat against my stomach like I can feel something different there. I can't. It's too early. But knowing changes everything—the way I breathe, the way I think, the way the light cuts through the curtains feels like an accusation.
The pregnancy test is hidden in my drawer, shoved beneath a pile of socks like a grenade waiting to detonate. Two pink lines that rewrote my entire future in the span of three minutes.
I have to get up. Have to face them. Have to pretend everything is normal when nothing will ever be normal again.
The shower helps. Hot water beating against my skin, steam filling my lungs, a few precious minutes where I can fall apart without witnesses. I let myself cry—ugly, heaving sobs that echo off the tile—and then I shut it down. Wipe my face. Armor up.
Clothes. Deep breath. Game face.
The kitchen smells like bacon and coffee, and my stomach immediately revolts. I swallow hard, forcing the nausea down through sheer willpower.
Both brothers are already there. Theron leans against the counter with his mug, honey eyes crinkling as he offers his usual grin. "Morning, sleeping beauty. Thought you were gonna hibernate through breakfast."
Weston sits at the table, rigid and distant, eyes fixed on paperwork like it contains the secrets of the universe. He doesn't look up when I enter. Hasn't really looked at me in weeks.
"Morning," I manage, crossing to the refrigerator.
I pour myself orange juice instead of coffee. The smell alone makes my throat tighten with the urge to gag. Orange juice is a safe option.
"No caffeine?" Theron's eyebrows shoot up. "Who are you and what have you done with Raven?"
My heart stutters. "Trying something new."
"Since when do you try new things before noon?"
"Since now." I force a laugh that sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Maybe I'm evolving."
"Evolving into what? A morning person?" He clutches his chest in mock horror. "Say it ain't so."
Weston's pen stops moving. He still doesn't look up, but I can feel his attention shift. Feel him listening.
I slide into my usual seat, toast on my plate, and try to eat. The bread tastes like cardboard. Every bite requires conscious effort to chew, to swallow, to not think about what's growing inside me.
Breakfast is torture.
Theron fills the silence with chatter about a fence that needs mending, a horse that's been acting strange. His voice washes over me like background noise. Weston responds in monosyllables, still buried in his paperwork, still refusing to acknowledge me as anything more than furniture.
The awkwardness from "the mistake" hangs heavy between us. A month later and we still can't be in the same room without the air turning thick.
"I should get started on the chickens." I push back from the table, toast barely touched. "Early start today."
Weston's shoulders relax almost imperceptibly. Like my absence is a relief. Like my distance confirms what he's been telling himself—it was a mistake, we're moving on, this is better.
Theron frowns. "You barely ate anything."
"Not hungry."
"Raven—"
"I'm fine." The words come out sharper than intended. "Just tired."
I escape before either of them can push further.
The barn is my sanctuary lately. Hay and horses and the simple rhythm of physical labor. Things that make sense. Things I can control.
I'm wrestling with a hay bale—too heavy, my arms shaking with the effort—when footsteps sound behind me.
Theron takes the bale from my hands without asking. Toss it onto the pile like it weighs nothing.
"You're not okay," he says. Not a question.
"I'm fine."
"Raven." His honey eyes search my face with that unnerving perceptiveness he has. The way he looks at people and sees past all the bullshit to something true underneath. "You've said 'I'm fine' three times this morning. That's a lot of fines for someone who's actually fine."
My throat tightens. "I just—"
"I'm not asking you to tell me what's wrong." He steps closer, voice softening. "I'm asking you to let me be here anyway."
Something cracks in my chest. A fissure running through the wall I've been building since I saw those two pink lines.
I want to tell him. Want to scream the truth and let someone else carry this weight. I want to say I'm pregnant and I don't know whose it is and I'm terrified and I don't know what to do.
But I can't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
"I just need time," I manage. "To figure some things out."
He studies me for a long moment. I can see the questions he wants to ask swimming behind his eyes. But Theron has always known when to push and when to step back.
"Okay." He nods slowly. "But I'm not going anywhere. Even when you push."
He walks away, leaving me alone with the horses and the hay and the impossible question echoing in my skull.
The day passes in a blur. I throw myself into work—feeding, cleaning, mending—until my muscles ache and my mind is too exhausted to spiral.
It doesn't help.
Every quiet moment, the thoughts creep back in. How do I tell them? When do I tell them? What will their faces look like when they realize one of them is about to be a father?
Weston, who builds walls like other people breathe. Who carries grief over Elena—whoever she was—like an open wound he won't let heal. How do I tell him I'm pregnant when he already treats our one night together like a crime he's trying to forget?
Theron, who loves with his whole heart, who would probably propose on the spot. How do I tell him there's a chance the baby isn't his? That he might be signing up for a lifetime of raising another man's child?
The sun sets in streaks of orange and purple. I skip dinner, claiming exhaustion, and retreat to my room before either brother can corner me.
Sleep doesn't come.
I lie in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, hand pressed against my stomach. Still flat. Still unchanged. But not empty. Not anymore.
I try to count days. That night was five weeks ago. One night. One reckless, drunken disaster that somehow produced two pink lines and a future I never planned for.
There's no way to know whose it is without a test. Without telling them both the truth and watching their faces as they do the same math I've been doing.
Which one of you is the father?
The question haunts me.
I imagine telling Weston first. Watching his walls slam up twice as high. Watching him retreat so far inside himself I'd never reach him again.
I imagine telling Theron first. Watching his sunshine dim into something wounded. Watching him try to be okay with something that's clearly not okay.
And then I imagine them finding out together. The tension between them exploding into something violent. Brothers torn apart by a baby that belongs to one but affects both.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket tight around me like armor.
How do I choose? How do I tell them? And what happens when I do?
The questions chase each other in endless circles until exhaustion finally drags me under. My last conscious thought is a prayer to a God I'm not sure I believe in.
Please. Please let me figure this out before it destroys us all.