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My voice is hoarse when I speak. But I am afraid I might’ve pushed too hard.

I almost lost myself today. I could blame it on the sleepless night spent digging into her past, trying to trace the nameless arsehole through a number.

It was a dead end the moment I found the person behind the contact. I was fucking furious, because a man named Austin Blake, fifty-eight years old, could not have been her boyfriend.

Maybe it was his son, but there was no son. No children. All night I chased emptiness, staring at the screen with unseeing eyes.

I did my initial research when I first saw her on campus all those months ago. No hospital record from that night. Nothing that aligned with my timeline.

Back then, I was too content with her presence to care about the gaps, because she was here, with me. And now I’m learning she has an ex-boyfriend who is apparently eager to get her back?

In your fucking dreams, arsehole.

I finally give her room to breathe as I flip us, forcing her to rest her head on my chest instead as I run my fingers through her golden, silky strands.

“You bit me.” She speaks, her hand touching the already red spot that’s slowly catching hints of blue and purple in the centre.

“You left me.”

“So did you.” She scrunches her face. “Are we doing this again?”

We fall silent all of a sudden, inhaling each other’s scent in. Surrounded by tranquillity, my hand on her waist and the unexpected image of her swelling up with my baby hits me, startling the shit out of me.

What if she gets pregnant?

I’ve never thought of having children, but would I really mind two or ten from her? Fuck, I’ll take however many she can give me.

But is she ready? Am I ready for it?

Fuck you, arsehole. She’s nineteen. Tone down your cavemen tendencies. Fuck.

I should use a condom. I’m a fucking deranged motherfucker; the thought never crossed my mind. Why did she never bring this up?

The thought of adding another barrier when she’s already stacked several between us doesn’t sit right with me. But I’ve read enough about birth control pills to know that the side effects can be brutal.

I don’t want her going through that.

Like the weak arsehole I am, I can’t even take off my shirt and show her my scars, so am I really ready to add another layer onto the thick walls of our lies?

How fucking hypocritical of me to judge her for hiding things when I’m doing the exact same.

Above all that, if she ends up getting pregnant one day, will she want it?

“What are you thinking about?” Her voice brings me back to reality and I sigh, contemplating telling her the truth, reason takes over when I finally speak.

“Do you like kids?”

She stills, but then chuckles. “Why do you ask? Of course, who doesn’t?” Ahem, for starters, my father didn’t.

“What do you think about having kids?” There’s no going back now.

“I don’t think, Sergei. I’m nineteen.”

“Not right now, I mean a few years down the lane?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice is barely audible as she whispers, too quiet. “I don’t really think about the future.” She clears her throat and faces me, traces of tears beneath her eyes as she rubs the back of her hand against them.

“W-what? Is it your neck? I’m—” fuck. “I’m sorry.”