Again.
My fingers pressed lightly into my temples. And let the conclusion land exactly where it needed to.
I was late.
Not unusual. Not impossible. Not… unprecedented.
Just—unlikely.
My fingers slid off my temple, dropping back to the counter as I straightened slowly.
This can’t be happening.I allowed the thought to spark and burn out as I snapped into action. There was nothing to worry about until I knew… and I had to know.Immediately.
I crossed the apartment, grabbing my bag off the chair bythe door, fingers already moving—phone, keys, wallet—automatic, efficient. No hesitation. No pause to sit in it.
Northbend in January didn’t ask if you were ready.
It assumed you were.
The street was already in motion when I stepped outside—cars pushing slow over packed snow, exhaust curling up in pale ribbons, the sky stretched thin and gray overhead like it hadn’t fully decided to commit to daylight. A Frosthawks banner snapped lightly against a lamppost across the street, the logo sharp against the muted landscape, a reminder that the season didn’t slow down just because everything else did.
The pharmacy sat two blocks down, bright and overly warm when I stepped inside, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly. The shift from cold to heat rushed at me fast and for a second I had to stop
I moved through the aisles with ease. Top shelf. Right side. Small box. Neutral packaging. Forced the panic to live in a later portion of my mind.
There’s nothing to worry about until you know.
The cashier barely looked at me, scanning it through with the same disinterest as everything else passing over the counter.Good.I didn’t need this to be a moment. I didn’t need it to be anything.
Transaction complete.
Handled.
The apartment was quiet when I stepped back inside.
The box sat in my hand, fingers pressing briefly against the cardboard.
Instructions.
Simple.
Straightforward.
I read them anyway.
Twice.
Once I finished, set the pee stick on the edge of the counter and walked away.
The apartment stretched open and still, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound cutting through it as I crossed back into the kitchen, reaching automatically for my laptop, flipping it open to the same screen I’d left minutes before.
My fingers found the keyboard, pulling me back into motion, into something that made sense.
A flagged thread sat at the top—media inquiry, tone shifting sharper overnight—and I opened it without thinking, scanning the language, already restructuring responses in my head before I reached the end of the first paragraph.
He doesn’t escalate. He responds. He protects. He doesn’t perform.
I rewrote the line, tightened it, stripped out anything that could be twisted into something it wasn’t.