Pregnant by the Enemy Alpha

I shower longer than usual, standing under the spray until the heat starts to prickle instead of soothe, because tonight feels like something I need to scrub myself into rather than out of, and I let the water run down my back while I stare at the tiled wall and tell myself this isn’t a rebellion, it’s just a night out, and I’m allowed to have those even if my father pretends I’m not. “Don’t overthink it,” I mutter, leaning my forehead against the cool tile for a second before reaching for the soap, because if I pause too long I’ll find a reason to stay right where I am. I wash my hair twice, rinse it slowly, and then step out to towel dry, catching my reflection in the mirror and pausing because I look different already, not in any obvious way, just looser somehow, like I’ve already stepped slightly outside the lines I usually keep myself inside. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes brighter, and I don’t look like someone bracing for correction. My toothbrush tastes like mint and guilt, and I brush harder than necessary while I stare at myself again, lifting my chin, meeting my own eyes like I’m daring myself to back out. “You deserve one night,” I tell the girl in the mirror quietly. “Just one.” She doesn’t argue. I pull on clothes I know my father wouldn’t approve of, nothing dramatic, just fitted enough to remind me that my body is mine and not a symbol, and I hesitate at the door before grabbing my jacket, checking my phone, and slipping out before I can change my mind. The music hits me first, loud enough to vibrate in my chest, and I pause just inside the doorway while my eyes adjust, letting the noise wash over me because it’s easier than thinking, and I spot familiar faces scattered through the crowd, people I’ve grown up with, people who know exactly who I am and what I’m supposed to be. “Hey,” someone shouts, brushing past me. “You coming over here.” “In a minute,” I shout back, smiling automatically, because it’s easier than explaining why I don’t want to be cornered by expectations tonight. I weave through the crowd instead, letting myself drift, and that’s when I see him, leaning against the bar with his head tipped back slightly as he laughs at something the bartender says, and I don’t know his name, or maybe I do and it just doesn’t matter, because the way he looks at me when our eyes meet isn’t evaluative or careful or weighed down with expectation. He just looks curious. “Hi,” he says when I step closer, voice raised over the music, and his smile is easy, unguarded, like he isn’t already deciding who I am. “Hi,” I reply, surprised by how easy it feels. “You want a drink,” he asks, already turning toward the bar. “Sure,” I say, then add, “Whatever you’re having,” because committing to a choice feels like too much pressure. He grins at that, quick and unguarded. “Dangerous answer.” “Feeling reckless,” I say, and I mean it as a joke, mostly, even though something in my chest tightens like it recognizes the truth in it. We talk about nothing and everything, shouting fragments back and forth, laughing when the music drowns us out, leaning closer without really deciding to, and when he asks my name I give it, and when I ask his I immediately forget it, not because it isn’t important but because tonight feels like it exists in a pocket outside of consequences. “So what do you do,” he asks, passing me my drink. “A bit of this,” I say, lifting my glass vaguely. “A bit of that.” “That’s not an answer,” he says, amused. “It’s the only one I’ve got,” I reply, and he accepts it without pushing, which feels like a gift. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” he says at one point, watching me over the rim of his glass. “I am,” I reply. “I just don’t get out much.” “That’s a shame,” he says, and there’s no judgment in it, just observation, like he’s noting something that could be changed rather than something wrong. Alcohol softens the edges of the room, makes the noise feel warmer, makes my shoulders loosen, and when his hand brushes mine it doesn’t spark, exactly, but it lingers, and I don’t pull away even though I know I usually would. “Want some air,” he asks, nodding toward the door. I hesitate for half a second, then nod, because the idea of quiet feels like relief rather than retreat, and I let him lead me toward the door. The cool night wraps around us like a balm, quiet enough that we can talk without shouting now, and I inhale deeply, feeling something unclench. “You look like you needed that,” he says, leaning back against the low wall outside. “I did,” I admit. “I really did.” We sit side by side, shoulders touching, close enough to feel the heat of him through our jackets, and he tells me about his work, his family, little details that feel oddly intimate even though they’re ordinary, and I tell him just enough about myself to feel honest without opening anything that might hurt later. “You’re hard to read,” he says after a while, studying me like it’s a compliment rather than a challenge. “I get that a lot.” “Not in a bad way,” he adds quickly. “Just… careful.” I laugh softly, looking out at the empty street. “You have no idea.” By the time we stand again, everything feels slightly tilted, not wrong, just off balance, and when he asks if I want to go somewhere quieter, I hesitate for half a second before nodding, because I’m tired of hesitating, and I want to see what happens when I don’t. The rest of the night exists in pieces rather than a straight line, the sound of a door closing, the press of his shoulder beside mine, laughter muffled into fabric, warmth and movement and the sense of being held in a moment that doesn’t ask for more than I can give, and I let myself stay there without counting the cost. In the morning, light filters through the window too early, and my head throbs in a way that feels deserved, and I lie still for a second, taking inventory, because that’s what I do, and everything seems fine, normal, contained. He stirs beside me, mumbling something unintelligible, and I smile despite myself before carefully disentangling, pulling on my clothes quietly, because this part matters, leaving without complication, without expectation. I manage to sneak out in the morning while he’s still asleep, slipping into the cool air and driving back toward the packhouse with the windows down, hoping my parents don’t see me, hoping this can stay exactly what it was. Back in my room, I shower again, scrubbing away the smell of alcohol and unfamiliar soap, brushing my teeth like it can erase the echo of the night, and when I catch my reflection this time I look the same as I always do, steady, composed, like nothing happened. “It was just a night,” I tell myself as I dress. “It didn’t mean anything.” I go about my morning routine, hair tied back, bed made, everything in its place, and if there’s a faint awareness humming under my skin, something I can’t quite define, I chalk it up to nerves, to a headache, to the lingering effects of too much alcohol and not enough sleep. By the time I leave my room, I’ve convinced myself completely. It meant nothing. I don’t notice my hand resting briefly against my stomach until I’m halfway down the hall, and when I do, I drop it immediately, annoyed with myself for reading into sensations that don’t deserve attention. “Get it together,” I mutter. And I do, because that’s what I’ve always done, even as something unnamed settles quietly into place, patient, waiting for the moment it will no longer let itself be ignored.