There’s a saying about not poking the bear, but clearly, Reese missed the memo. Or crumpled it into a ball and yeeted it into the sun, because the minute she hears me admit I’m pregnant—whispers and all—she turns on the heel of her cowboy boots like a bridezilla possessed and stomps back toward the tent with all the grace of a pissed-off swan tangled in tulle.

“Reese!” I call after her, my voice cracking under the weight of my impending panic attack. My body protests as I push into a light jog, heart thundering like a drumline. I don’t even make it to the edge of the tent before I hear her.

“What the actual fuck, Fletcher?”

Oh, no.

No, no, no, no.

I push through the open door of the cottage just in time to catch the fireworks. Reese is standing there—ivory gown glowing like a goddamn battle flag—eyes locked on Fletch with enough fury to summon the ghost of every ex-girlfriend he’s ever wronged.

Fletch blinks. His brows crease. “You’re pregnant?”

He says it like I’m a math problem he can’t solve. Like the words don’t make sense on his tongue.

The world tilts. Time stutters.

Oh.

Shit.

I feel like someone’s punched me in the uterus. Maybe it’s the nausea, or maybe it’s the fact that everyone—Thorin, Benji, Carson—is now staring at me like I just flipped the table at The Last Supper.

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Thorin—gorgeous in his dark suit and completely unbothered by the sweltering heat—steps forward like a silent assassin, jaw set, fists clenched. If death-by-glare were a real thing, Fletch would already be six feet under.

“You wanna say that again?” Thorin asks, voice low and lethal.

Fletch doesn’t answer. He’s too busy gaping at me like I’ve grown a third eye and a second head.

Benji mutters, “Holy shit,” and Carson—usually the king of quips—just stares, slack-jawed.

And me?

I want the earth to crack open and swallow me whole. Preferably before someone asks if I know who the father is. Spoiler alert: I do. And he’s standing right the hell there, looking like I personally drop-kicked his heart into a blender.

“I—” I start, but Maggie beats me to it.

“Enough,” she says, stepping in like a queen surveying her court. “Reese, honey, let it go. Just for now.” Her voice softens, gentles. “You’re the bride. This is your wedding. Don’t let it be about anything else.”

Reese’s lips twitch. Her eyes—shiny and fierce—lock with mine, and I feel a jolt of guilt that makes my stomach churn. Not just because I ruined her moment. But because she’s hurting for me. Because she’s always hurting for me.

Her throat works as she swallows. “We’ll talk later,” she says, voice trembling with restraint. She doesn’t look at Fletch again. Just turns and walks back to the tent with Thorin, who immediately wraps an arm around her waist like he’s anchoring her to the earth.

Maggie turns to me and whispers, “Go back to the house. I’ll smooth things over.” Then louder, to the group: “We’ll be cutting the cake in twenty. Let’s keep things festive, shall we?”

She’s the picture of poise, but I catch the subtle flick of her gaze toward Fletch, a warning sharp enough to slit skin.

I don’t wait for anyone to follow. I pivot, feet moving on instinct, chest heaving like I’ve just run a marathon barefoot and uphill in stilettos.

Behind me, I hear Fletch call my name, once, twice—but I don’t stop.

Because if I do, I’ll cry.

And if I cry, I’ll tell him everything.

And if I tell him everything…I might not survive what he says back.

I breathe in through my nose, slow and shaky, trying to find the calm that left with my dignity. My heart thuds like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. The scent of pine from the candle Reese left burning wraps around me like a trap—warm, familiar, and suddenly suffocating.

Fletch stands there, halfway between fury and fear, like he can’t decide which emotion to let win. His hands are fists at his sides, his jaw clenched so hard I swear I hear the crack of his molars.

His voice cuts through the silence, low and cold and laced with something sharp. “You were supposed to keep it simple.”

I freeze.

“You promised, Mya.” He spits my name like it burns. “No feelings. No strings. No falling in love. And definitely no… this.” He gestures wildly between us, like I’m some ticking bomb he didn’t sign up to defuse.

“I didn’t plan it, Fletch,” I say quietly. “You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to be the girl who caught feelings for the guy who made it very clear he didn’t believe in more?”

His eyes flash. “Then why the hell didn’t you say something sooner?”

“I ended it eight weeks ago!” My voice cracks with the weight of all the shit I’ve been carrying. “You think I walked away for fun?”

His mouth opens, then shuts. The silence stretches thin. Brittle. Dangerous.

“I missed my period,” I say, staring at the floor because I can’t look at him when I say this next part. “And I panicked. I drove to Dallas because I didn’t want anyone in town seeing me buy tests. Six of them. I peed on every single one in a shitty restaurant bathroom, and they all said the same thing.”

I finally lift my head. “Positive.”

He doesn’t move.

He just stares at me like I’ve become someone he doesn’t recognize.

Like I’m a problem he doesn’t know how to solve.

Like I’m his worst-case scenario.

“I’m not—” He breaks off, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m not cut out for this. For you. For a kid. I told you that.”

“I know,” I whisper. And I do. I always did. That didn’t stop me from hoping he’d prove himself wrong. Didn’t stop me from hoping either. 

Fletch takes a step back, shaking his head, his voice suddenly quiet in a way that’s somehow worse than shouting. “You were supposed to be the one person who didn’t ask me for more.”

And just like that, he leaves.

No slamming doors. No final word. Just the echo of disappointment, and the sharp, undeniable truth:

He never wanted me to fall.

And now that I have, he’s not the one waiting to catch me.

He’s the one walking away.

* * *

The reception is over. The fairy lights are dimming, the music’s faded into memory, and the night air smells like lavender and champagne-soaked laughter. But somehow, saying goodbye is the part that punches me square in the chest.

Reese wraps me in a hug so tight it squeezes all the breath from my lungs. And maybe that’s poetic, because it feels like she’s taking a piece of me with her.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving so soon,” I whisper into her shoulder, blinking hard against the heat burning behind my eyes. “It’s like you’re vanishing into a Hallmark postcard or something.”

She laughs, but it wobbles. “I’m not vanishing. I’m just going to Bali, not the Bermuda Triangle.”

“But still,” I murmur. “What am I supposed to do without you for two weeks?”

“Figure out your shit in Horseshoe Bay,” she says, pulling back just enough to lock eyes with me. Hers are glossy, too, but she’s still wearing that stupid newlywed glow like it’s Dior. “And text me. Updates. Regular ones. I want all the details.”

I sniff, smile, and dab at my cheek with the back of my hand. “You are not allowed to work on your honeymoon.”

“Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes so dramatically, it’s practically a full-body motion. “Checking your texts doesn’t count as working.”

“Says the woman who brought a color-coded itinerary to her own wedding.” I jab a playful finger into her arm.

“Touché.” Her grin fades into something softer. “I’ll text you when we land. Promise.”

“Only after you’ve had at least one cocktail on the beach,” I insist. “With one of those tiny umbrellas.”

Reese holds out her pinky. “Promise.”

We pinky swear like we’re twelve, and suddenly I’m hugging her all over again because if I don’t, I might shatter.

Behind us, Thorin hugs Maggie and Carson while Benji tugs at his pant leg, too tired to keep his eyes open but unwilling to let go. It’s such a picturesque family moment that I almost look away, like I’m intruding. But then again, when it comes to Reese and Thorin, everything feels like a goddamn movie.

Fletch hovers near the limo like a shadow that doesn’t know where it belongs. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight like he’s bracing for something—an earthquake, maybe, or an emotion he can’t afford.

Thorin pulls away from Maggie and strides toward him, and for a heartbeat, I swear Fletch is going to bolt.

Instead, he lets Thorin hug him. Quick. Awkward. Like it burns.

“You better take care of her,” Fletch mutters.

Thorin just smiles, that quiet, confident smile that says always without needing the word.

Then they’re climbing into the limo, Reese turning to blow me one last kiss from the open window, her veil gone but the spark in her eyes still brighter than any star in the Texas sky.

The door clicks shut.

The engine purrs.

And just like that, the limo disappears down the long gravel driveway, headlights slicing through the dark until they vanish behind the wrought-iron gates.

Gone.

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold in my satin dress, heels sinking into the dewy grass. The silence settles, soft and suffocating. Like a blanket woven from all the things we didn’t say.

Carson and Benji disappear into the main house. Fletch doesn’t look back. Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t hesitate.

The door slams behind him with a hollow thud, like the punctuation mark on a chapter I wasn’t ready to end.

Maggie catches my eye, her gaze gentle in a way that makes my throat ache.

She steps toward me without a word, arms outstretched, and I fall into them like a wave collapsing on the shore. Her sweater smells like cinnamon and peppermint shampoo and safety. My chin trembles against her shoulder.

“It’ll be better in the morning, sweetheart,” she whispers, brushing my hair from my face with weathered fingers that have surely mended more hearts than I could count. “The sun has a way of making things seem less impossible.”

I want to believe her. God, I want to.

She pulls back, her eyes searching mine. “Do you want me to come with you tomorrow? To the doctor?”

For a moment, I almost say yes. Almost beg her not to leave me alone with the reality of it. But then I shake my head, once, firm. “No. I need to do this by myself.”

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes—worry? Respect? Maybe both. She cups my cheek, presses a kiss to my temple, and whispers, “You’re stronger than you know.”

Then she’s gone. Just like the others.

Just like him.

The air turns colder without her warmth, the emptiness louder in her absence.

I walk toward the little cottage I call home. My dress clings to my legs, satin soaked by grass and regret. The doorknob bites into my palm when I twist it, and the second I step inside, I’m swallowed whole by silence.

No laughter. No lights left on. No Reese pretending to be asleep on the couch with her laptop still playing a rerun of Friends.

Just… nothing.

I toe off my heels, wincing at the ache in my arches. My feet are red and swollen, like they’re mourning too.

The silence presses in around me, thick as honey, slow as sorrow. I press a palm to my stomach.

Still too early to feel anything. Still too abstract to accept it’s real. And yet the weight of it is heavier than anything I’ve ever carried.

But I won’t cry.

I already did that. Cried until my makeup was a melted mess and my dignity washed down the drain with it.

Tonight? I’m done crying. Done hoping. Done waiting.

I flick on the lights, the brightness too sharp, like the world’s mocking me for thinking it would pause just because my life did. My dress puddles on the floor, a champagne-colored ghost of the girl who walked into tonight thinking she might come out whole.

I tug on an old sweatshirt—his, because I’m a masochist apparently—and pour myself a glass of water I don’t really want. My reflection catches in the microwave door, pale and tired and hollow-eyed, like a heroine from a heartbreak anthem.

Congratulations, Mya. You’ve officially become a tragic cliché.

I flop onto the couch, the springs creaking beneath me like they’re sighing too.

I miss Reese.

I miss him.

But mostly, I miss the version of me who believed everything would be okay.

And even though the ache settles in my chest like a second heartbeat, I straighten my spine.

No more moping. No more waiting for apologies that won’t come or comfort that won’t be offered.

Tomorrow, I face the music. Alone. Brave-faced. Bare-souled.

And maybe—just maybe—when the sun comes up, I’ll remember how to breathe again.