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Old flame. New complication.

Evy stood in the middle of the tiny kitchen, one hand on the fridge door, the other gripping a beer. She took a sip, tilted her head, then suddenly spat it across the counter.

“Shit,” she whispered, staring at the bottle like it had betrayed her.

She didn’t want to believe it. Had even laughed in the bathroom of a gas station in Bucharest, waving the test like it was a prank product. But four tests later and a missed period that wasn’t just travel stress?

Yeah. Pregnant. Again.

She sat down, still holding the damn beer like a security blanket. “How the hell did this happen?” she muttered. Then scoffed. “Right. Because we couldn’t keep our hands off each other for five minutes, and apparently I need a refresher course on condoms.”

She looked down at her stomach like it had betrayed her too.

She remembered Airlia. Fiery, reckless, wild from the start. Born during a thunderstorm in a hospital where nobody spoke her language. Evy had felt like a goddamn warrior. Airlia had vanished six months ago—radio silence. Evy told herself her daughter was alive. She had to be.

Phoenix came next. Quieter. Thoughtful. She knew he had reasons to not return her calls.

And now... this.

Evy wasn’t afraid of raising a child. She was afraid of not having enough time before the storm hit again. She wanted late-night talks with Earle. Morning sex. Lazy breakfasts. Not diapers. Not two a.m. feedings.

What if he didn’t want it? What if he looked at her the way she looked at the positive test—like it was a wrong turn on a map they’d barely unfolded?

She rubbed her face. “I just got you back,” she whispered to no one, and maybe to him. “I just wanted a little more time.”

The beer bottle sweated in her palm.

She set it down and reached for her phone. Didn’t call. Just stared at Earle’s name.

This time, she wouldn't vanish.
But she wasn’t sure how to tell him, either.