Chapter 30: Pancakes & Paternity Results
The smell of coffee, rich and dark, pulled Alexis from a deep, dreamless sleep. For a few disoriented seconds, she didn’t recognize the room. The light was different—softer, filtered through expansive floor-to-ceiling windows that framed a hazy Austin sunrise over the distant hills. The pillow under her cheek smelled like Mark’s cologne, clean and woodsy.
Then she remembered. The long, quiet talk on her couch. The way the night had deepened around them until the only sound was their breathing, synchronized. Her whispered, “Okay. Stay.” Him gathering her against him on her own bed, holding her as if she might vanish. No pressure. Just the solid warmth of him, a harbor against the storm still raging online.
She’d woken once in the night to find him awake, staring at the ceiling.
“Can’t sleep?” she’d murmured.
“Don’t want to,” he’d answered, his voice rough with exhaustion. “This feels… I don’t want to miss it.”
She’d understood. She’d drifted back under, anchored.
Now, she blinked against the morning light. This was his space. His sanctuary. She pushed back the charcoal-gray duvet and padded barefoot across the cool concrete floors of the bedroom, through the open door into the main living area.
The condo was a testament to him. A curated chaos. One whole wall was a mesmerizing library of manga and graphic novels, organized with a collector’s precision. Animated figurines—Luffy, Goku, Ichigo—stood sentinel on high shelves. Against another wall, a sleek, multi-monitor streaming setup lay dark and silent, a dormant cockpit. The central space was all clean lines and minimal furniture, the view of the waking city the main artwork.
And there he was.
Mark stood at the kitchen island, his back to her, shirtless. The muscles in his shoulders and back moved beneath his skin as he poured batter onto a sizzling griddle. He was humming something—a low, tuneless sound of concentration. Sunlight caught the fine chain around his neck. The scene was so violently normal it made her heart ache. Pancakes. Coffee. Him.
She leaned against the doorframe, watching. He hadn’t heard her. This was a version of Mark no one else saw. Not the performer, not the content CEO, not even the penitent boyfriend from last night. Just a man making breakfast, trying to build one simple, good thing in the middle of the wreckage.
She must have made a sound, or he just felt her presence. He glanced over his shoulder, and his face softened into a smile that reached his tired eyes. “Hey. You’re up.”
“Hey,” she said, her voice still sleep-soft. “You cook?”
“I survive,” he said, flipping a pancake with a practiced flick of his wrist. It landed perfectly. “Got a culinary skillset that begins and ends with ‘breakfast for dinner’ and ‘grilled cheese.’ This is my full display.”
A small laugh escaped her. “Impressive.”
“Stick around. You ain’t seen nothing yet.” He nodded towards the espresso machine, its steam wand hissing gently. “Got your oat milk latte going. Two shots, just how you mumbled you liked it in your sleep.”
Her brows lifted. “I talk in my sleep?”
“A little. You also demanded I quote-unquote ‘protect the village of Konoha.’ I took that as a sacred vow.”
The easiness of it, the stupid, quiet joy of it, was a fragile bubble. She walked over to the island, accepting the warm mug he slid towards her. The ceramic was a deep matte blue. She took a sip. Perfect. She watched him work, the careful focus. “Did you sleep at all?”
“A little. After you started snoring.”
“I do not snore.”
“It was cute. Like a tiny, angry kitten.” He grinned, then his expression sobered. “I’ve been ignoring my phone. My manager called seventeen times. My publicist sent a PDF of crisis management strategies longer than my thesis.”
Alexis wrapped her hands around the mug. “And?”
He shrugged, keeping his eyes on the griddle. “And nothing. They can wait.” He slid two golden-brown pancakes onto a plate, added a pat of butter that melted instantly, and drizzled maple syrup in a lazy spiral. He pushed the plate across the island to her. “Eat. Before it gets cold.”
She took a seat on a stool, the food a warm, sweet comfort. He turned to make his own plate. The morning sun streamed in, painting everything in a hopeful, amber light. For just a minute, it was possible to pretend. To believe this was just a regular Thursday. That the only stakes were whether the syrup would drip onto his countertops.
His phone, lying face-down on the counter next to the fruit bowl, buzzed.
It was a dry, sharp sound. They both froze.
It buzzed again. Then again. Not a call. A rapid-fire sequence of alerts. Text messages. Or emails.
Mark didn’t move. His back was still to her, spatula held aloft over the griddle. The sizzle of the remaining batter grew louder, acrid.
Alexis put her fork down. The sweet taste in her mouth turned to paste.
He slowly set the spatula down. He didn’t turn around. His shoulders tensed, the muscles drawing tight. He just stood there, staring at the cabinets in front of him, as the phone continued its insistent, vibrating dance on the granite.
“Mark,” she said quietly.
He turned. His face was a careful mask, but his eyes were wide, pupils dilated. He looked from her to the phone and back again.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” she asked, though she already knew.
“Probably.” His voice was flat.
The phone went still. The silence it left behind was thicker, heavier than the noise. The only sound was the drip of the coffee machine and the distant hum of the city below.
He walked over to the counter, his movements deliberate. He picked up the phone. His thumb hovered over the screen. He didn’t look at it.
“We don’t have to open it right now,” Alexis heard herself say. The words felt stupid the moment they left her mouth. Of course they did.
He shook his head, a tiny, sharp movement. “Yes, we do.” He finally looked down, waking the screen. His face was illuminated by the pale glow. He scanned the notifications, his jaw tightening. “It’s the clinic. The secure portal link.” He took a deep, shuddering breath and looked up at her, his eyes searching hers. “Together?”
Her throat was too tight to speak. She just nodded.
He tapped the screen, his fingers steady but his knuckles white where he gripped the phone. He entered a passcode. The browser opened. He navigated to the link, his brow furrowed in concentration. Alexis stood up and moved around the island, coming to stand beside him, close enough that their arms brushed. She could feel the tension radiating from him.
He clicked the link. A login screen appeared. He typed in his credentials, each tap of his finger echoing in the quiet room.
The page loaded.
It was a clinical, impersonal document. A header with the lab’s logo. Patient information: Mark Anthony Phillips. Alleged Child: Male Infant, Doe. Requesting Party: Self. Test Date…
Her eyes skipped down, past the legalese, searching for the only words that mattered.
Mark was breathing shallowly beside her. He wasn’t reading. He was staring at a point just below the screen, as if bracing for a physical blow.
Conclusion: Based on the analysis of 16 genetic markers, the Alleged Father, Mark Anthony Phillips, is EXCLUDED as the biological father of the child. The probability of paternity is 0.00%.
A sound escaped her—a sharp, involuntary intake of breath.
Mark’s eyes snapped to the screen. He read it. Once. Twice. A third time. His body went utterly still. Then a tremor started in the hand holding the phone, a fine vibration that traveled up his arm. He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for months, a ragged, broken thing that was half a sob, half a laugh.
“Zero,” he whispered. “Zero point zero.”
He dropped the phone onto the counter with a clatter, his hands coming up to cover his face. His shoulders shook.
Alexis reached for him, her hand finding the bare, warm skin of his back. He flinched at the touch, then turned into her, burying his face against her neck. He wasn’t crying, not really. He was trembling, a full-body release of a tension so profound it had become part of his structure.
“It’s not mine,” he muttered into her skin, the words hot and damp. “It’s not. I knew. I knew, but… God.”
She held him, her arms around his shoulders, her fingers splayed against the knobs of his spine. She felt the truth of it sink into her own bones. The weight that lifted wasn’t just his. It was theirs. The ghost was gone. The mistake had no claim.
After a long minute, he pulled back, his hands coming to cradle her face. His eyes were clear, brilliant with a desperate hope. “Alexis.”
She looked at him, really looked at him. She saw the man who’d burned his career down on a live stream for her. The man who’d made her pancakes while the world called him a liar and a deadbeat. The man who was, against all odds, not a father.
“Okay,” she said. Simple. Final.
He kissed her then. It wasn’t like any kiss they’d shared before. It was relief. It was a promise. It was a new foundation, poured on solid ground.
When they broke apart, foreheads resting together, his phone began to ring again. Not a buzz. A full, blaring ringtone. He glanced at the screen. “It’s Des.” He looked at her, a question in his eyes.
She nodded. “Answer it.”
He picked up, putting it on speaker. “Yo.”
“Mark! Bro, where have you been? The group chat is exploding. Did you see it? Did she send it to you?”
“I saw it,” Mark said, his voice steady, his eyes locked on Alexis’s.
“And? Man, you gotta give us something. The internet is on fire. TMZ picked it up. They’re saying you ‘allegedly’ got the results, but nobody has them. People are going insane. Your mentions…”
“I have them,” Mark interrupted, calm cutting through Des’s panic. “The results are in my hand. I am excluded. Zero percent probability. It’s over.”
A whoop came through the speaker, loud and tinny. “YES! I knew it! I knew it, man! Oh, this is perfect. We gotta—we gotta craft a statement, man. This is huge. The comeback is gonna be legendary. You should go live, right now, just—”
“Des,” Mark said, quiet but firm.
Des stopped talking.
Mark’s thumb stroked Alexis’s cheekbone. “I’m not going live. Not today. Maybe not for a while.”
“But… the optics, man. You need to control the narrative!”
“The narrative is my life,” Mark said, his gaze never leaving Alexis. “And I’m done performing it. Send a simple statement from the team. ‘Mark Phillips has received confirmation he is not the father. He asks for privacy as he focuses on his personal life and moves forward.’ That’s it.”
Des was silent for a beat, the weight of the instruction sinking in. “You sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” A small, genuine smile touched Mark’s lips. “I’ll check in later, bro. Hold things down.”
He ended the call and set the phone back down. The condo was quiet again. The pancakes were cold, the coffee lukewarm. None of it mattered.
He looked at her. “What now?”
Alexis took a deep breath. The relief was there, a bright, clean space inside her. But so was the residue of the mess—the public spectacle, the woman who’d lied, the fans who’d doubted him, the people who’d dragged her into the comments. That didn’t just vanish.
“Now,” she said, “we finish our cold breakfast. And then…” She squared her shoulders, feeling a new, steely resolve settle in her chest. “Then we decide what happens next. Together. No more streams. No more surprises. Just you and me, figuring it out.”
Mark nodded slowly, his expression serious, respectful of the gravity in her tone. “Just you and me.” He glanced at the phone, now dark and silent on the counter. He picked it up, tapped the screen a few times, and then with a decisive motion, he powered it down.
The screen went black.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of the unspoken work ahead, the conversations they needed to have, the trust they had to rebuild brick by brick. But for the first time, there were no secrets left hiding in the corners. The evidence was in. The truth was on the table, between the syrup and the cold pancakes. They were starting from zero.
Zero point zero.