At home, I place the unopened test on my bathroom counter and stare at it like it might explode. I should take it now. Get an answer, even if it might not be accurate yet. Knowledge is power,isn't it? That's what I tell my patients' parents when they're facing uncertain diagnoses.
But if I take the test and it's positive, everything changes. I'll have to tell Nick. We'll have to make decisions—about the pregnancy, about our relationship, about our future. Decisions we're nowhere near ready for when we haven't even figured out what we are to each other now.
And if it's negative? The relief might be tainted with an unexpected disappointment that I'm not prepared to examine.
No. Better to wait. Talk to Nick first about the bond, about us, about whether his feelings are real or just guilt-driven biology. Then decide about the rest.
I hide the test in the back of my bathroom cabinet just as my phone rings. Nick's name flashes on the screen, and a wave of both relief and anxiety washes over me.
"Hey," I answer, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
"You left work early." Not a question. He must have called when he couldn't reach me there.
"Amara sent me home." No point lying about that. "She thinks I need rest."
There's a pause, filled with things unsaid. Then: "Can I come over? To your place, I mean. Not to push, just...I've been thinking about what you said. About proving I mean this. And I think we need to really talk. No more dancing around things."
My heart speeds up. "What kind of talking?"
"The kind where I tell you exactly how I feel and why, and you tell me what you need from me to believe it's real." His voice is steady, determined. "The kind where we figure out if this bond is something we both want or something we're just stuck with."
The directness of it steals my breath. This is what I wanted—honesty, clarity, real conversation instead of careful politeness. But now that he's offering it, I'm terrified of what we might discover.
"Yes," I decide, because running from this conversation won't make the questions go away. "But Nick? I need you to understand that I can't go through you leaving again. So if you have any doubts—any at all—about whether you can handle whatever we find out about us, don't come over."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," he says without hesitation. "And Micah? I'm not running anymore. Whatever we discover, we're facing it together."
After we hang up, I stand in my bathroom, staring at the cabinet where I've hidden the pregnancy test. Should I tell him tonight? Add that complication to an already impossible conversation?
No. First, we need to figure out what this bond means to us—to him. Whether he sees it as a mistake to be managed or something he actually wants. Whether there's any future for us beyond the biological connection we've accidentally created.
Once I know where we stand, then I can decide about the rest.
I close the cabinet firmly, decision made. Tonight is about Nick and me—about the bond that's already formed between us and whether we can build something real from the wreckage of our friendship.
Tomorrow is soon enough to worry about what else might be growing from our connection.
Nick
I've been sitting in my car outside Micah's apartment building for ten minutes, engine off, trying to work up the courage to go upstairs.
Not because I'm afraid he won't let me in—we agreed to this conversation. But because I'm terrified I'll say the wrong thing and confirm every fear he has about me, about us, about what this bond really means.
The research I've been doing since yesterday fills a notebook on my passenger seat. Pages of handwritten notes about male omega physiology, bond formation, separation symptoms. Things I should have known before I marked him. Things I'm learning now because I refuse to keep failing him through ignorance.
Jason's words from this afternoon echo in my head: "Go get your omega, big brother. And this time, don't run."
My omega. The phrase doesn't feel strange anymore. It feels right in a way that terrifies and thrills me equally.
I grab the notebook and finally force myself out of the car. Time to stop being a coward.
Micah answers his door on the first knock, like he was waiting. He looks exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, that pale complexion that comes with bond-separation. Seeing the physical evidence of what my running put him through makes guilt twist in my stomach.
"Hey," I say, suddenly uncertain how to start this conversation that will determine our entire future.
"Come in." He steps back, gesturing me inside. His apartment feels different than usual—smaller, more intimate. Or maybe that's just the weight of what we need to discuss.
We settle on his couch, close enough that I can smell his scent but far enough apart that we're not touching. The distance feels deliberate on his part, and I respect it even though every instinct I have wants to close the gap.