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Veronica Sawyer finds out she’s pregnant on a Tuesday morning that is aggressively ordinary.
Which somehow makes it worse.
There’s coffee brewing in their tiny apartment kitchen, the smell rich and bitter. Rain taps against the windows in that gentle, persistent way it always does in early spring. Their neighbour’s dog is barking at nothing again.
The world is behaving like it always does.
Meanwhile, Veronica is standing in the bathroom holding a small plastic stick like it might explode.
Two pink lines.
Very clear.
Very undeniable.
“Oh,” she says to the empty room.
She sits on the edge of the bathtub.
Her brain does a weird slideshow of her entire life: Westerburg High hallways, red scrunchies, funerals, college lecture halls, late-night study sessions, a courthouse wedding where J.D. looked like he might pass out when he said I do.
And now—
Pregnant.
She presses a hand against her stomach, which feels exactly the same as it did yesterday.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispers.
She and J.D. talked about kids before. In the vague, theoretical way people in their early twenties do.
Someday.
Maybe.
When we’re less broke.
They had a system: Veronica worked at a small local newspaper while J.D. finished grad school in psychology, an irony neither of them missed. He wanted to work with troubled teens.
“Preventative maintenance,” he’d joked once. “Catch the little revolutionaries before they start stockpiling explosives.”
She’d laughed.
But now the idea of a child feels very real.
A tiny person who will one day ask questions like What were you like in high school?
Veronica groans softly.
“God help us.”
The front door opens in the other room.
Right on cue.
“Ronnie?” J.D.’s voice drifts down the hallway. “Why does it smell like coffee but not like drinking coffee?”
Her heart jumps into her throat.
Oh no.
She stands too quickly, nearly dropping the test in the sink.
“Coming!” she calls, voice suspiciously high.
She stares at the stick again.
Two pink lines.
There is absolutely no chill way to tell Jason Dean he’s going to be a father.
None.
She tucks the test into the pocket of her hoodie and walks out into the kitchen.
J.D. is leaning against the counter, damp from the rain, dark hair slightly messy. He’s wearing the same old black jacket he’s had since college, the sleeves pushed up.
He looks up and grins when he sees her.
“There she is. The caffeine thief.”
He grabs her around the waist and kisses her hello.
Veronica kisses him back automatically, brain still spinning.
He pulls away, squinting at her.
“You look weird.”
“Wow. Romantic.”
“No, like, existential weird. Did the newspaper finally fire you for your groundbreaking exposé on cafeteria food?”
“Not yet.”
He pours himself coffee and slides a mug toward her. “Okay, then what’s up?”
She stares at the mug.
Coffee.
Right.
Pregnant people aren’t supposed to drink too much caffeine, right?
Oh God, she doesn’t even know the rules yet.
“Uh,” she says eloquently.
J.D. raises an eyebrow. “That bad?”
Her stomach flips.
She realises she’s gripping the edge of the counter.
“Ronnie?”
His voice is softer now. Concern creeping in.
Veronica takes a breath.
There’s no perfect way to do this.
So she just… does it.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words fall into the kitchen like a dropped glass.
Silence.
J.D. blinks.
Once.
Twice.
“Okay,” he says slowly.
Which is not the reaction she expected.
She watches him carefully. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
He sets his coffee down very carefully on the counter.
“Define… pregnant.”
She pulls the test from her pocket and holds it up.
Two pink lines.
He stares at it like it’s written in another language.
“Is that… good?” he asks cautiously.
Veronica laughs helplessly. “It’s a pregnancy test, Jason. It’s not a mood ring.”
Right.
He nods. Then nods again.
Processing.
A lot of processing.
“You’re pregnant,” he repeats quietly.
“Yes.”
“With a baby.”
“That’s generally how it works.”
“With my baby.”
She softens. “Yes. Yours too.”
He leans back against the counter like his legs suddenly forgot their job.
For a moment, she thinks he might panic.
After everything—the past, the chaos, the way he used to talk about the world like it was already doomed—she braced herself for that.
Instead, he starts laughing.
Not hysterical.
Just stunned.
“Oh my God,” he says under his breath.
Veronica crosses her arms. “You’re laughing.”
“I’m—” he gestures vaguely “—processing.”
“Are you okay?”
He looks at her then.
Really looks.
And the laughter fades into something softer.
“You’re pregnant,” he says again, like he’s still testing the shape of it.
“Yeah.”
“With a whole tiny human.”
“Allegedly.”
He pushes off the counter and walks toward her slowly.
“Ronnie,” he says, voice careful, “are you okay?”
That question hits harder than she expects.
“I don’t know,” she admits.
Her throat tightens.
“I mean, we’re still paying off student loans. Our couch has a suspicious stain neither of us will acknowledge. And what if we completely screw this kid up?”
He stops in front of her.
“We will,” he says immediately.
She blinks.
“What?”
“Every parent screws their kid up a little,” he shrugs. “That’s tradition.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Hold on, I’m getting there.”
He takes her hands.
“But we’ll screw them up less than our parents did.”
She exhales a shaky laugh.
“Low bar.”
“Manageable bar.”
She studies his face.
There’s fear there. Of course there is.
But there’s something else too.
Wonder.
“You’re not freaking out,” she says slowly.
“Oh, I’m absolutely freaking out,” he says. “Just internally.”
“Good to know.”
He glances down at her stomach, like he expects it to move suddenly.
“There’s… a baby in there,” he says.
“Technically, it’s more like a bean right now.”
“A bean.”
“Yes.”
He nods seriously. “Our bean.”
Veronica laughs again, tension cracking open.
“God, this is surreal.”
“Yeah.”
They stand there for a moment.
Then J.D. does something that completely catches her off guard.
He kneels down.
“Jason, what are you doing?”
He gently presses his ear against her stomach.
She snorts. “It’s the size of a blueberry.”
“I’m saying hello early.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
He looks up at her with that crooked smile she fell for years ago.
“Hi, kid,” he says softly to her stomach. “Your parents are deeply underqualified, but we’re trying.”
Veronica’s chest tightens painfully.
“You’re taking this suspiciously well,” she murmurs.
He stands again.
“I spent a long time thinking the future was pointless,” he says quietly. “Remember?”
She nods.
“Turns out I was wrong.”
He touches her stomach lightly, almost hesitant.
“This is… the most future thing I can imagine.”
Her eyes sting.
“You’re happy?” she asks.
He laughs softly. “Terrified. Broke. Completely unprepared.”
“Jason.”
“But yeah,” he says, voice warm. “I’m happy.”
Relief floods through her so fast she nearly sways.
He pulls her into a hug, holding her tight.
“We’re going to have a kid,” he says into her hair.
“We’re going to have a kid,” she echoes.
They separate after a moment.
“So,” J.D. says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do we start reading parenting books? Building cribs? Asking literally everyone we know for advice?”
“All of the above.”
“Cool.”
He picks up his coffee again.
Then pauses.
“…wait.”
“What?”
“Can pregnant people drink coffee?”
Veronica groans. “I was literally just thinking that.”
He slowly pushes the mug away from her.
“Better safe than sorry.”
“You’re already doing dad things.”
“I’ve committed to the role.”
She smiles, watching him.
Jason Dean, the boy who once believed the world deserved to burn, is now standing in their kitchen worrying about caffeine and fetal development.
Life is weird.
Beautifully weird.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “someday we’re going to have to explain high school to this kid.”
He grimaces. “Let’s maybe wait until they’re thirty.”
“Good plan.”
Rain continues tapping against the windows.
J.D. slips his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.
“Our bean,” he says again, sounding amazed.
“Our bean,” she agrees.
And for the first time since seeing those two pink lines, Veronica feels something stronger than fear.
Hope.