Ethan stared at the three pregnancy tests lined up on the edge of his sink like they were a joke someone had committed to too hard.
Two lines.
Two lines.
Two lines.
Not 'maybe.' Not 'faint if you squint.' Not 'evaporation line, calm down.'
Hard disagreement with reality.
He gripped the counter until his knuckles ached, then forced his hand to relax and tried to breathe through the sudden, stupid vertigo.
The Sahan physicians had told him that he might never have a child. Not by carrying one himself, not by 'assisting' someone else, not by any of the polite phrasing they used to avoid saying 'your body was damaged' and 'we don't know how to fix all of it.'
Ethan had believed them, because the doctors in Saha didn't sell comfort. They sold facts.
And because believing them had been… easier. Safer. A clean limitation he could build around.
