“How much have you had to drink?” I ask, shutting the door.

“Not much,” he lies, swaying on his feet.

“It looks like it.” I walk into the kitchen and get down a glass. After pouring some water for him, I add a packet of electrolytes and carry it over to where he’s standing. “Drink this. It might not help you right now, but at least you won’t feel like you’ve been hit by a semi in the morning.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, taking the glass.

Wrapping my arms around my middle, I watch him drink it, then take the glass back when he’s finished. “So why are you here?” I ask, walking to the kitchen to place the glass on the counter.

“I don’t know,” he says quietly, and I turn to face him. “I just needed to see you.”

“Why?”

“Because you showed up at my office today, telling me that you think you’re pregnant.”

“I don’t think I’m pregnant. I went to the doctor yesterday, and they confirmed that I hadn’t taken a dozen faulty tests,” I reply, and he laughs softly, which eases some of the tension in my muscles.

“How far along are you?”

“Ten weeks.” I wander across the room to the painting I was working on so I can put the brush I had been using in the cleaning solution before it dries out.

“And you think I’m the dad?”

“Dayton,” I whisper, my throat getting tight. I’m not angry at him for asking that question, and if I were him, I would be asking the same thing. We don’t know each other. As far as he knows, I could be having wall-sex with random men on a regular basis.

“Tell me,” he urges, and I look over at him as I stop in front of my workstation.

“What I think is that you took a very drastic step in making sure that you would never become a father, and I would never force you to take on that responsibility.”

“So, I’m the dad?”

“Unless I’m the first human female in modern history to get pregnant from immaculate conception, yes.” My gaze wanders over him. “I don’t expect you to believe me, and I get why you wouldn’t. I’ll take whatever test I need to in order to prove I’m not lying if that’s what you want.”

“That’s the thing, Franny—I do believe you, and it’s fucking with my head.”

“I get that too. I…”

“You what?” he asks when I can’t find the words to say.

“Nothing.”

“Franny.”