Chapter 1: Against the Glass
The door clicked shut behind Chase, sealing them in the thick afternoon silence of Aubrey’s bedroom. Sunlight poured through the gauzy curtains, catching the dust motes dancing above a pile of half-knitted scarves on her desk. The air smelled like lavender dryer sheets and the peculiar, sweet scent of old paperbacks.
The air smelled like lavender dryer sheets and the peculiar, sweet scent of old paperbacks. Aubrey was cross-legged on her floral bedspread, a textbook open in her lap, her forehead creased in concentration. A ray of sun turned her blonde hair into a halo of white-gold.
“You’re staring,” she said without looking up, a smile playing on her lips.
“Can’t help it,” Chase said, leaning against the doorframe. He felt a familiar, warm current stir in his chest. She was so perfectly, obliviously beautiful. His eyes drifted past her shoulder to the bookshelf, where a row of her textbooks stood, their spines cracked.
He pushed off the doorframe and walked over, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He plucked the textbook from her hands and tossed it gently onto the desk.
“Hey! I have a quiz on Monday,” she protested, but she was already laughing, her blue eyes bright as he crawled onto the bed, crowding her space.
“You’ll ace it. You always do.” He brushed her hair back from her face, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. “Right now, I need you to be un-studious.”
She mock-sighed, melting back into the pillows. “You’re a terrible influence, Reilley.”
“The worst,” he agreed, lowering his mouth to hers.
The kiss started slow, a lazy exploration. Her lips were soft, tasting of her peach gloss. He felt her hands come up to cradle his face, her thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones. A deep, profound sense of rightness settled over him, followed by a sharper, more insistent heat. His hand slid under the hem of her oversized sweatshirt, finding the warm, smooth skin of her waist. She arched into his touch, a little sigh escaping into his mouth.
It was easy, then, to lose themselves. The careful, considerate boyfriend routine he’d practiced for months fell away like a discarded shirt. His movements became more possessive, more certain. He stripped the sweatshirt over her head, then his own. The sunlight was warm on their skin.
“Chase,” she breathed, her voice a mix of affection and surrender as he kissed down her neck, over the lace edge of her bra. Her fingers tangled in his hair, not pushing him away, but holding him closer.
There was no discussion, no fumbling for anything. It was the understood rule of their private world. He nudged her thighs apart and settled between them, the familiar, dizzying slide of skin against skin making them both gasp. He looked down at her—her hair fanned out like spilled cream, her lips parted, her eyes half-lidded and fixed on him with absolute trust.
That trust was a drug. It fueled him, made the coil of desire in his gut tighten into something fierce and singular. His rhythm wasn’t gentle. It was driving, deep, a claiming. Every thrust was a silent vow. Mine. This is all mine.
“God, you feel…” he muttered, burying his face in the curve of her neck, breathing in her scent.
“Don’t stop,” she pleaded, her heels digging into the small of his back. Her hips rose to meet his, every movement synchronized, a perfect, frantic conversation. Her cries were soft, muffled against his shoulder, then louder, ringing in the sunlit room.
He felt the peak rising, a tidal wave of heat and pressure. He held her hips tighter, his grip surely leaving marks, and drove into her with a final, brutal intensity. Pleasure detonated, white-hot and absolute, and he emptied himself into her with a groan that was pure, unvarnished triumph.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing mingling with the distant hum of a lawnmower outside. He collapsed beside her, spent, one arm slung heavily across her stomach.
Aubrey turned her head on the pillow, a drowsy, sated smile on her face. “Wow,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” he said, kissing her temple. His mind was already clearing, the animal intensity receding. He watched her chest rise and fall, his own possessive satisfaction a steady drumbeat in his veins.
Her smile faltered slightly. A flicker of something—a thought—crossed her features. Her eyes, hazy with pleasure, drifted away from his face, focusing on nothing across the room. “Oh,” she said softly, the sound almost a whisper of regret.
“What’s ‘oh’?” he murmured, nuzzling her hair.
“Nothing,” she said, too quickly. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Just realized I totally blanked on my history reading.”
But her gaze had flicked, just for an instant, toward her cluttered nightstand. Toward the small, patterned pill case that sat there, unopened. He’d seen it. He said nothing. He just pulled her closer, letting his hand splay possessively over the warm, flat plane of her belly, and watched the dust motes dance in the silent, sunlit air.
He just pulled her closer, letting his hand splay possessively over the warm, flat plane of her belly, and watched the dust motes dance in the silent, sunlit air. Her breathing slowed, syncing with his. He knew, in that quiet, what she hadn’t said. The unopened pill case. The missed days she thought he hadn’t noticed. The frantic, secretive swallowing of pills over the sink last week, playing catch-up. It was a math problem, simple and brutal. And he’d provided the most critical variable.
For the next fourteen days, he watched her like a biologist observing a potential breakthrough. He noted the small details. The way she suddenly pushed her eggs around her plate at the diner, her nose wrinkling. The uncharacteristic nap she took on his couch after work, her body demanding more rest. The subtle, new fullness in her breasts he felt when they made love—which was often, always without a condom, always finishing inside her with a grim, focused intensity that left her breathless and him vibrating with a secret, primal certainty.
He was charming, of course. He brought her ginger ale and saltines. “Just a bug,” he’d say, smoothing her hair. “You’ve been stressing over finals.” He made his voice soft, his concern a blanket.
Two weeks later, on a Tuesday afternoon thick with the promise of rain, he found her standing frozen in the hallway outside her bathroom. Her face was pale, her fingers clutching the edge of a small, white plastic stick.
“Aubrey?” he asked, his tone perfectly pitched between confusion and care.
She didn’t speak. She just held out the test. Her hand was trembling.
He took it. Two solid, unmistakable pink lines. A plus sign. A verdict. He let his eyes widen, let his jaw go slack. He crafted the reaction in a heartbeat. “What… is this? How?” He ran a hand through his hair, the picture of stunned disbelief.
“My period’s late,” she whispered, her voice thin and fractured. “I just… I knew. I felt weird. I bought it on my lunch break.” She wrapped her arms around herself, shrinking into the wall. “I forgot pills, Chase. For like, four days in a row that one week. I think… I think it was that day. In my room. When the sun was—”
She choked off, her eyes filling with a well of pure, unadulterated panic. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek. Then another. She wasn’t crying softly; it was a silent, drowning wave of shock crashing over her. Her shoulders began to shake. She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, her knees pulled to her chest, the ugly, industrial hallway carpet scraping her bare legs.
“I can’t be,” she gasped between hitched breaths. “I can’t. I’m going to be a teacher. I don’t… I never wanted…” She covered her face with her hands, her whole body convulsing with silent sobs. “My mom. Oh my God, my mom.”
Chase lowered himself to the floor beside her. He didn’t touch her immediately. He let her cry, let the reality sink its teeth in deep. He looked at the test again, then at her hunched form. A slow, deep warmth unfurled in his chest, spreading through his veins like a drug. It was a feeling of profound, terrifying power. Creation. Ownership. A line extending from him, through her, into an unknown future. His.
When he finally reached for her, his movements were gentle. He pulled her into his arms, her body stiff at first, then collapsing against him. He pressed his lips to the top of her head.
“Hey,” he murmured into her hair, his voice a low, steady thrum. “Just breathe. Breathe with me.” He rocked her slightly, his hand cradling the back of her head. “It’s going to be okay.”
She cried harder, her tears soaking through his t-shirt. “It’s not,” she wailed, muffled against his chest. “It’s not okay. Everything is ruined.”
“Nothing is ruined,” he said, and he meant it. He looked over her shoulder, down the empty hallway. His expression, hidden from her, was one of calm, terrifying clarity. The first domino had fallen. His thumb stroked slow circles on her shoulder, a rhythm of absolute calm against her chaos. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”