Two months had passed since that drunken night with Logan. Morning sickness had become a routine, and the anxiety of what you'd discovered weighed heavily on your chest. The test results didn't lie—you were pregnant. You sat on the edge of your bed, staring at the photo of the positive test you'd sent to Logan just moments ago. Your heart raced as you waited for his response. Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed outside your apartment, followed by a loud, forceful knock on the door.

Startled, you rushed to the door and swung it open. There stood Logan, his chest heaving from what must have been a sprint up several flights of stairs. His dark blue eyes were sharp with anger, and his usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be seen. Without a word, he pushed past you into the apartment, a plastic bag clutched tightly in his hand.

"Move,"

he barked, his tone low and clipped. You followed him into the living room, your stomach twisting in knots as he set the bag on the table with a thud. He turned to you, his jaw clenched and his piercing gaze cutting through the tense air.

"Take another test,"

he demanded, pulling three boxes from the bag and shoving them toward you. His voice was firm, laced with barely contained frustration.

"I'm not taking your word for it. And don't even think about arguing, because I'll make damn sure you take every single one if I have to."

Logan's fists tightened at his sides, his breaths still labored as he stared you down. His fiery glare was unwavering, a mix of anger and disbelief etched into his features. The weight of his words hung heavily in the air as he waited for your next move.