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Then he reaches me and pulls me into a hug. I lean into this with all my heart. Because he is warm, and solid, and he smells like soap. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No," he pouts. Then he pulls back and looks down at me. "Did you get the test?”

I reach into my purse and pull out the little brown bag. "I did. I got three of 'em."

"Three? Do we need three?"

"No. But it doesn't hurt to be sure."

"Let's do it right now." And he's already got my hand and he's pullin' me down the hallway toward the bedroom, and all I can do is follow.

Not that I'd want to do anything else. Not even a little.

When we get to the bathroom he leans in the doorframe like he owns it and says, "Can I watch?"

Which makes me laugh out loud. "You've seen too many probation officers," I tell him.

Which nearly makes him guffaw. "It did kinda come out that way, didn't it?"

"No," I say, and I reach up and play with what's left of his hair. I miss the locks. I genuinely mourn them. But this close-cropped severity suits him in a way I didn't expect. "I was just kiddin'. I don't care if you watch. It's not that excitin' though."

"I'll take my chances," he says. His low and deep voice aimed directly at me.

"All right," I tell him, smoothin' the front of my skirt, all dignity and composure. "But I'll put you to work if you stay."

He shifts off the doorframe and his eyes settle on mine. "Tell me what you need, baby. I'm here."

"Let's open them all up and do all three at once," I tell him, smoothin' my skirt one more time like that's gonna settle anything. "That way we'll know for sure. No room for argument."

"I got you," he says. And it's only three words but when Legion says something like that the whole room quiets a little, like the air understands him better than I do.

We open all three boxes together, me reading the instructions because I'm the kind of person who reads the instructions even when the test is obvious, and Legion holding each one out with those big ink-covered hands that have done far worse and far more complicated things than this.

There's something so strange about watching him handle something this delicate. Those knuckles. MERCY spelled out across them. Holding a pregnancy test over a sink.

I hike my skirts up and sit, and Legion, bless him, doesn't make a single face. He just passes me each stick as I need it, perfectly timed, lookin' at the wall with an expression I can only describe as respectfully elsewhere.

Then it's done and he sets all three down in a row along the edge of the sink, neat as a firing line.

I clean up. I stand. I let my skirts fall. I look at myself in the mirror for one second and I don't recognize the girl lookin' back at me, which is funny because I've built a whole empire out of being recognized.

"Now what?" he asks.

"It takes three minutes," I tell him, turning to face the row of tests instead of my own reflection. "Then we'll see the results."

Legion grabs his phone and starts stabbing at the screen with his thumb. "I'll set the timer."

And God, the way he does it without a single bit of hesitation. No grimace, no careful performance of calm. It thrills me to my bones. He wants this. He is not standin' there tolerating the moment or managing it like damage control. He is in it, the same way he's always been in everything with me—completely, and without apology, and without a single look at the door.

If I'm pregnant, this will honestly be the best day of my life.

Better than any ribbon I ever pinned to a headstall, better than any equestrian title I ever rode home wearing.

Better than every perfectly lit, algorithmically optimized photograph my mother ever made of me that got a hundred thousand likes by noon.

Better than the first time Legion and I actually had sex in that silo, seventeen and fifteen and absolutely certain we were gonna burn the whole valley down just by bein' that close to each other.

I have wanted him for so long. And now, finally, he is mine.