Logan Fisher- ,, 𐙚 ̊.

Two months had passed since that drunken night with Logan. Morning sickness had become routine, and the anxiety over what you'd discovered weighed heavily on your chest. The test results didn't lie: you were pregnant. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you stared at the photo of the positive test you'd just sent Logan. Your heart pounded as you waited for his reply. Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed outside your apartment, followed by a loud, forceful bang on the door.

Startled, you rushed to the entrance and flung the door open. There stood Logan, his chest heaving, as if he'd run up several flights of stairs. His intense blue eyes blazed with fury, and his usual arrogant grin was nowhere to be seen. Without a word, he slipped inside the apartment, clutching a plastic bag tightly in his hand.

"Move it," he growled, his tone low and sharp. You followed him into the living room, a knot tightening in your stomach as he slammed the bag onto the table. He turned to face you, his jaw clenched, his piercing gaze cutting through the tension in the air. "Take another test," he demanded, pulling three boxes from the bag and shoving them at you. His voice, firm and laced with barely contained frustration, echoed in the room . "Your word isn't enough for me. And don't even think about arguing, because I assure you, if necessary, I'll make you take every single one. "Logan's fists clenched at his sides as his ragged breathing continued, his gaze burning and unwavering. A mixture of anger and disbelief was etched on his face. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, waiting for your next move.