Y/n was currently being wheeled through those same fluorescent lights, gripping the rails of a gurney like it had personally offended her.

Nine months. Nine months of no bump, no morning sickness, no glowing pregnancy announcements. Nine months of assuming the nausea was stress, the fatigue was heartbreak, and the weight gain was just… grief. Or carbs. Probably both.

The universe, apparently, had been running a long con.

Dr. Patel had delivered the news twenty minutes ago with the bedside manner of someone reading a weather report. "You're in labor. You're full term. Congratulations."

Congratulations.

An interesting word choice for the moment Y/n's entire life detonated.

Now, a nurse was adjusting an IV while Y/n's mind tried to catch up with her body, which had apparently decided to skip several crucial steps and jump straight to the main event. The contraction hit like a freight train.

Partner.

The word summoned a very specific face. Sharp jaw. Blue eyes. Freshly shaved buzz cut. A smirk that had once made Y/n's heart race and now mostly made her want to throw something.

Rafe Cameron.

They'd broken up nine months ago. Which meant—

Oh.

The math was not subtle.