Micah
"Iwant to take you to Amara now."
Nick's words hang in the air as we stand outside the café, the cool evening breeze carrying the scent of approaching rain. I blink at him, processing.
"Now? It's almost eight. Her office will be closed."
"She gave you her card, right? With her cell number?" Nick's eyes are determined, his jaw set in that way that means he's made up his mind. "Call her. Tell her it's important."
I shake my head, practical instincts kicking in. "Nick, even if she agreed to see us, the early detection tests aren't completely accurate. That's why she told me to wait a week."
"I don't want to wait a week." He steps closer, his hand finding mine with casual certainty. "I don't want you to spend seven more days wondering and worrying. Let's just...know. Whatever the answer is."
The bond pulses between us, carrying his emotions to me—determination, yes, but also excitement that doesn't quite makesense given the circumstances. Not panic or resignation, which is what I'd expect from someone who just learned they might have accidentally impregnated their best friend.
"You're really not freaking out about this," I observe, studying his face for signs of hidden distress.
Nick's smile is small but genuine. "I'm surprised too. But no, I'm not freaking out." His thumb traces circles on my wrist, sending warmth up my arm. "Call her, Micah. Please."
I sigh, knowing that tone. Nick has always had a stubborn streak, especially when it comes to taking care of people he cares about. Apparently, that now extends to potential pregnancies.
"Fine." I pull out my phone, scrolling to find Amara's contact information. "But don't be surprised if she tells us to wait until regular office hours."
To my surprise, Amara answers on the third ring, her voice crisp and professional despite the evening hour. When I explain the situation, she agrees to meet us at her private practice office in thirty minutes.
"She said yes," I tell Nick after ending the call, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
"Of course she did. You're a colleague, and this is important." He takes my hand again, leading me toward his car. "Come on."
The drive to Amara's office passes in nervous quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I watch Nick's hands on the steering wheel—steady, confident—while my own pulse hammers against my throat. His scent carries notes of concern but none of the bitter distress I'd expect from someone facing unexpected fatherhood. Instead, there's that same undercurrent of contentment that still confuses me.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks, glancing at me at a stoplight.
"You," I admit. "How calm you are. It's...unexpected."
Nick considers this, his brow furrowing slightly. "I think I'm past the initial shock. When you first told me, everything kind of stopped for a second. But then it started again, and it just...made sense, somehow."
"Made sense?" I repeat incredulously. "Nick, nothing about this makes sense. We're best friends who accidentally bonded during a heat that wasn't supposed to happen, and now I might be pregnant. That's the definition of chaos."
"Is it?" He looks at me again, his blue eyes serious. "Because from where I'm sitting, it feels like everything that happened was leading us here. Like we were always heading toward each other, and the heat just accelerated the timeline."
The sentiment is so unexpectedly romantic that I don't know how to respond. This is Nick, my practical, straightforward best friend who's never been one for flowery declarations. Yet here he is, talking about destiny as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
"The bond is affecting you," I say finally, grasping for familiar explanations. "It's influencing your emotions, making you feel more accepting of the situation than you would otherwise."
"Maybe," Nick concedes. "Or maybe the bond is just making me honest about feelings I've had all along."
The certainty in his voice makes my chest tight. Through the bond, I feel his emotions—steady, unwavering, with an undercurrent of joy that should terrify me but somehow doesn't. He really means this. All of it.
Before I can formulate a response, we arrive at Amara's office—a modern building in the medical district, its windows dark except for a single light on the third floor. Nick finds a parking spot and cuts the engine, turning to face me fully.
"Whatever she tells us in there," he says, his voice low and serious, "we'll handle it together. Okay?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. The bond between us thrums with shared emotion—his certainty mingling with my anxiety, a tension that crawls under my skin and makes everything feel electric.
The lobby is dimly lit when we approach the entrance, and I spot Amara through the glass doors before we even reach them. Amara is waiting for us inside, dressed in casual clothes rather than her usual professional attire. Even so, she carries herself with the same composed authority I've always admired.
"Thank you for meeting us so late," I say as she lets us in, her heels clicking softly on the marble floor.