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opens his eyes, and then parts his lips to speak, but no words come. His apartment is starkly silent, and the quiet has become a living creature in this room, a shadow animal wedged between us. Then, he whispers, so low I’d need some kind of machine to pick it up if I weren’t staring at his lips, and the words that take shape on them.
    “ Our baby. ”
    He pulls me to him, and I tuck my face into the crook of his neck, placing a hand on his chest, his heartbeat wild and terrified under my palm.
    * * *
Trey
    Two words I never thought I’d say. Not now. Not yet.
    But they’re here, levitating in the air between us, another presence in my apartment, and then inside me, an echo reverberating in my cells.
    Our baby.
    I can honestly say I never thought this would happen. Maybe that makes me stupid, but we were so careful, and I’ve never knocked up anyone before, so it makes no logical sense why it would happen now.
    But there’s no point in trying to apply reason. Logic has been factored out of the equation.
    So, what’s next? Are we supposed to talk about baby names? Parenting philosophies? What hospital she wants to give birth at, like responsible adults discuss? Or the fact that we’re in college and this is happening? That we’re recovering addicts, junkies, fuck-ups with the worst possible parental role models ever?
    I don’t know, I can’t know, and my feet feel unsteady and my breath is thin, but there is one thing I can hold on to—that I don’t want to lose touch with her. She is my rock, she is my hope, she is my every-fucking-thing, and so I don’t let go of her. I cling to her, my chin against her hair, her body gathered in my arms.
    We stand there for minutes, our arms tangled so tightly together, our bodies snuggled close as if we can erase the distance and the fear if we’re entwined.
    Soon, I pull apart, look her in the eyes, and opt for the naked truth. “I don’t have a clue what we’re supposed to do next. Or talk about. Or if I’m supposed to take you shopping for baby clothes, or touch your stomach all the time. All I know is, I fucking love you, and I’ll do whatever you need.”
    Her shoulders seize up, and her eyes well, but she nods, seeming strong, steadfast. That’s my girl. My tough, badass, brave girl.
    “I love you too. That’s all that matters, right? We’ll figure it all out somehow. As long as we’re together.”
    “We will always be together,” I tell her, locking eyes with her, making sure she knows these words are the absolute truth. They are the foundation of how I live my life now. With her. With the certainty I have in this crazy love that we found in the most unlikely place. “Remember? Staying .”
    “Staying,” she repeats, nodding. “Always.”
    Then her hands slip up my shirt, and she runs her fingernails across my arrow tattoo. I rub her shoulder and bring my lips to kiss her heart and arrow. It’s like we’re sealing a promise. One that neither of us ever expected to make; not now, not like this.
    But what choice do we have?
    Somehow we manage through the rest of the day, and when her stomach rumbles in the evening, I laugh.
    “Hungry much?”
    “I guess so,” she says with a sheepish grin.
    “Bet you didn’t know I am amazingly proficient at making grilled cheese sandwiches.”
    Her eyes light up. “Ooh! I bet you didn’t know that’s my favorite kind of sandwich.”
    I show off the extent of my skills in the kitchen, making her a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner, the melted cheddar drizzling over the crust of the bread.
    She takes a bite and rolls her eyes in pleasure. “This is so good I’m going to call it the Cheesy Miracle.”
    “That is an excellent name.”
    I whip up a Cheesy Miracle for myself, and damn, it tastes good, and it’s almost enough—the dinner, and the banter—to make it seem like we are the same people we were this morning, or yesterday, or a week ago.
    Almost.
    But not quite.
    Because as the hours turn into