The Target Was Mine

Our baby

Cassian

lab was too bright, too sterile, and too quiet — except for the steady scratch of a pen on paper.

She didn’t look at me. Again.

Wednesday Hale sat at our shared station like she didn’t notice the way my knee brushed hers, or how I kept glancing at her like she was some unsolvable code. Her posture was perfect. Her expression, emotionless. Her lips, a little too distracting.

hated that I noticed.

We’d been paired for the semester’s final biochemistry project — a simulation of artificial baby development, down to genetics, compatibility, and co-parenting strategy. A joke, really. Most people laughed about it, treating it like a glorified dating game.

But not her.

Wednesday approached it like a battlefield. No emotion. No humor. Just calculations. Cold efficiency.

The kind that made you wonder if she had ice in her veins.

“Here,” I said, setting down her favorite black coffee. No sugar. No cream. I'd been paying attention. “Figured you might need fuel.”

She didn’t say thank you. Didn’t even blink. Just took the cup without hesitation and kept writing. I smirked, weirdly pleased.

“Still ghosting me, Ghost Girl?” I murmured under my breath.

She paused. Just barely.

Progress.

then bell rang,

The break was over. The halls buzzed again.

I was leaned back against the counter in the lab, a lazy grin on my face, arms crossed, while my boys — Jax and Theo — were huddled around me.

“She’s weird, bro,” Jax muttered, eyeing the door. “Why’s she walking around like she owns the place?”

“She doesn’t talk to anyone,” Theo added. “Like, at all. Ice queen.”

I smirked. Then straightened, suddenly alert.

She was back.

Wednesday Hale walked in like she was walking into war — same sharp eyes, same black button-up tucked into her pleated skirt, same effortless silence. The lab lit a little different when she stepped into it. Everyone saw it. No one said it.

I did.

I elbowed Jax. “Move, my bestie’s here.”

They snorted. “Bestie? You mean your lab partner who’d gladly stab you with a pipette?”

“She’s brilliant,” I said without shame, watching her take her seat. “I don’t even do 10% of the work. I just sit here and vibe.”

Which was true.

She handled the entire coding side of the DNA simulation, drew the embryo diagram, filled out the growth charts. I supplied commentary and sarcasm.

She didn’t speak to me the entire time.

Until today.

“All you do,” she said suddenly, eyes locked on the screen, voice flat and quiet, “is sit there and talk.”

I blinked. Then broke into a grin.

“Of course,” I said, tilting toward her. “When I’ve got a small girl like you, beautiful and brainy with a body like that... why would I waste my energy?”

She looked up at me — calm, deadly — and said, “I thought you’d forgotten about the beating I gave you.”

My grin widened. “Oh, that? Yeah. Still have the emotional trauma. You really hurt my feelings, Wednesday.”

“Good,” she said, and went back to typing.

Theo, who was watching from the table beside ours, whispered to Jax, “She’s terrifying.”

“Kind of hot though,” Jax muttered.

I ignored them. My eyes stayed on her — the way her fingers flew across the keyboard, how she didn’t hesitate once. Calculated. Calm. Dangerous. Like she was born for war.

I leaned forward a bit. The DNA sim loaded again. Baby: Female. She had my hair. Her lips. My eyes. Her fire.

Damn,” I muttered. “She’d be scary beautiful.”

Wednesday looked at the screen. Still no reaction.

I leaned closer. “First one’s a girl,” I said softly. “Strong like her mom. Unshakable. Probably wouldn’t even cry at birth.”

I nudged the screen toward her. “We naming her Cassday.”

“No,” she said immediately.

“Why not?”

She didn’t respond.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “We’ll name her after you. Wednesday Aurora Lalis Jr. The second.”

She paused. Just for a second. I caught it. That flicker. That tiny crack in her stone-cold armor.

I kept going, quietly this time. “First one’s a girl. She’s gonna be strong. Cold. Smart. She won’t even cry when she’s born. She’ll be just like you. And I’ll be proud.”

Her hands stopped moving.

Then she turned, slow and dangerous, and frowned at me. “Stop romanticizing a simulation.”

“But Ghost Girl,” I said, teasing, “I’m in love already.”

“You’re sick.”

“I know,” I whispered, eyes on her lips. “Sick for you.”

She stood.

I barely registered it before she walked out, notebook in hand, her ponytail swinging like a blade behind her.

Theo laughed. “Man, she’s gonna ruin you.”

“Already did,” I muttered under my breath.