𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦

C.24

Valentine POV

The first rays of sunlight slipped through the blinds, catching the curve of Quincey's jaw. He was still asleep, head tipped slightly back, beard rough under her fingers as she traced lazy circles across it.

She smiled softly, just watching him breathe—the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint twitch of a smile in his lips as he dreamed. A quiet, ordinary moment that felt impossibly rare. She pressed her palm to his cheek, feeling the heat of him, the solidity of him, and for a second, she thought maybe some things didn't change. Maybe some people stayed the same.

Then, without warning, a sharp twist of nausea hit her stomach like a punch. Her eyes snapped open.

"Shit..." she muttered under her breath, leaping from the bed.

Quincey stirred, groaning softly, half-lidded eyes still caught between sleep and wakefulness.

"Val...?" His voice was thick with sleep, concern threading through the rasp.

She didn't answer. Her stomach rolled again, sour and relentless. She bolted toward the bathroom, hands pressed to her stomach, barely making it in time.

The cool porcelain greeted her forehead, and her body convulsed, expelling every last bit of whatever was brewing inside. The taste was sharp, acidic, suffocating. She gripped the edge of the sink, closing her eyes, forcing herself to focus on the simple act of breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

A soft knock came at the bathroom door.

"Val?" Quincey's voice was low, careful. "You good in there?"

She swallowed, forcing her tone light. "Mm-hm. Just feelin' a little off, that's all."

Another pause. She could almost hear him thinking. "You eat somethin' yesterday that ain't sit right? That seafood spot maybe?"

Her hand slipped under the sink, pulling forward the hidden box of Clearblue. Her fingers shook as she tore it open. "Maybe," she murmured, keeping her voice even. "Could be."

He hesitated, his voice quieter this time. "Or maybe you caught a bug? Weather been all over the place lately. You got a fever?"

"No fever," she lied smoothly. "Just... my stomach."

The plastic crinkled as she unwrapped the test. Her heart hammered, loud enough she feared it might echo in the small bathroom. She lowered the stick, urine hitting with a hiss that sounded far too loud in the tiny room. She tried to breathe through it, keep her tone steady.

"You been like this a few days straight, Valentine. You want me to run to the store? Pick up ginger ale, crackers—somethin' for nausea?"

The test sat on her knee, face-down. Seconds ticked by like hours. Her insides twisted tighter than her stomach had minutes ago. She forced a small laugh, light as she could manage. "You always wanna fix things. I'll be alright, baby. Just need a minute."

Silence. Then the quiet scrape of his palm against the wood, like he was rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright. But you know I don't like not knowin' what's wrong with you."

Her eyes flicked down. The faintest blue was bleeding into the window. Her chest clenched, and her mind raced—Pregnant? No. Maybe. Stress. Or... a baby?

Quickly, she flushed the toilet, grabbed the test, shoved it back into the box, and tucked it deep under the sink. She washed her hands, staring at her reflection—pale, wide-eyed, trying not to shake.

When she finally unlocked the door and opened it, she had a small smile ready. "See? Still alive."

Quincey stood there in sweatpants, arms hanging loose at his sides, face lined with worry. His eyes swept over her like he didn't quite believe her.