TW: dubious consent, stalking
Hunter stretched his arms above his head, rolling his stiff shoulders as the lecture hall emptied. His binder felt tighter than usual today, but he chalked it up to the stale air conditioning, or maybe the guy two seats over who kept glancing at him. Again.
"Need a pencil?" The guy slid one across the desk without waiting for an answer. His knuckles were rough, like he worked construction between classes, and the tattoo peeking out from his sleeve looked homemade.
Hunter picked it up, rolling it between his fingers. "Thanks." He didn't. His backpack was full of half-chewed pencils from the library.
The pencil guy, Hunter refused to give him a name even in his own head, started showing up two seats to his left every Tuesday and Thursday. He’d nod when Hunter walked in, sometimes slide over a granola bar or a stick of gum like they were sharing some unspoken trade agreement. Never spoke much, though. Just the occasional comment about the professor’s monotone voice or how the overhead projector was one flicker away from giving everyone a seizure.
Hunter caught himself staring once, mid-lecture, at the way the guy’s forearm flexed when he scribbled notes. There was something deliberate about the way he moved, like he’d practiced how to make even the smallest actions look effortless. His nails were always clean but uneven, as if he bit them when no one was watching. The tattoo, now that Hunter could see it better, was a crude dagger with a snake coiled around it, the ink blurred at the edges, the kind you’d get in a basement with a needle and a bottle of vodka.
"You ever gonna tell me your name?" Hunter asked one day, crumpling the wrapper of the third granola bar he’d been handed that month.
The guy smirked, tapping the end of his pencil against his bottom lip. "Why? You planning on writing me a letter?" His voice had that low, gravelly tone that made Hunter's stomach do a slow flip. It was flirtation, a fact, like the way he always wore the same battered leather jacket even when the classroom was sweltering. Hunter kind of liked it.
Hunter shrugged, pretending to focus on his notes. "Just wondering if I should start calling you Granola Guy in my head or if you’ve got something better."
A quiet laugh, more air than sound. "Granola Guy’s fine." He stretched his arms behind his head, the hem of his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a strip of skin above his jeans. Hunter caught himself staring again. The guy noticed, of course. Hunter could tell by the way his smirk widened, but he didn’t say anything, just went back to his notes like they hadn’t been talking at all.
The overhead lights buzzed like angry wasps as the last few students shuffled out of the lecture hall. Granola Guy, still nameless, still smirking, tapped his pencil against the edge of Hunter's desk. "You live on campus, right?" The question was casual, but his eyes weren't. They tracked the way Hunter's throat moved when he swallowed.
Hunter nodded before he could think better of it. "Yeah. East dorm."
"Cool." The guy stood, slinging his backpack over one shoulder with that practiced ease. "Let’s go." Not a request. Not even really an invitation. Just a statement, like he’d already decided how this would play out and Hunter was just catching up.
Hunter’s dorm room was small, cluttered with half-finished art projects and textbooks stacked haphazardly on the floor. Granola Guy barely glanced at any of it. He shut the door behind them with a quiet click, then turned the lock. Hunter’s pulse jumped.
"You’re wound tight," the guy murmured, stepping into Hunter’s space. His hands settled on Hunter’s hips, thumbs pressing into the dip of bone above his jeans. "Relax." His breath was warm against Hunter’s neck, and for a second, Hunter almost did relax. Then the guy’s teeth grazed his earlobe, sharp enough to make him gasp, and the hands on his hips tightened.
Hunter expected kissing maybe, something slow, something that would give him time to catch up. Instead, Granola Guy yanked Hunter’s shirt over his head, fingers scraping against his ribs. The binder came next, peeled off with rough efficiency. Hunter barely had time to register the cold air on his skin before the guy was pushing him backward onto the bed, knees hitting the mattress hard enough to bruise.
"Wait," Hunter’s voice cracked. The guy was already unbuckling his belt, shoving his own jeans down just enough to free his cock. It was thick, flushed dark at the tip, and Hunter’s stomach lurched when he realized how fast this was moving. "Condom," he blurted, scrambling to sit up. "You need to..."
Granola Guy grabbed Hunter’s wrist, pinning it to the bed beside his head. "I’m clean." He said it like it was a fact, like Hunter was stupid for doubting him. His other hand tugged at Hunter’s waistband, shoving fabric down to his thighs in one rough pull. Hunter’s underwear followed, and then there was nothing between them but the slick between his legs.
Hunter’s breath came in short, panicked bursts. The guy’s cock nudged against his hole, blunt and unrelenting. "I said condom..."
"I heard you." Granola Guy leaned down, his mouth hovering just above Hunter’s. "But I don’t like them." And then he was pushing in, slow at first, just enough to make Hunter whine, then all at once, burying himself to his base. Hunter arched off the bed, a strangled noise tearing from his throat. It hurt. Not in the way Hunter had imagined it might, this was sharper, meaner, like the guy was carving out space inside him whether he wanted it or not.
"Fuck," Granola Guy groaned, hips snapping forward. "Knew you’d be tight." He didn’t wait for Hunter to adjust, didn’t even seem to notice the way his fingers clawed at the sheets. Just set a brutal pace, each thrust driving the air from Hunter’s lungs.
Hunter squeezed his eyes shut. The guy’s grip on his wrist was going to leave bruises.
Hunter gasped as the guy bottomed out inside him again, the sharp sting of it making his toes curl. He could feel every inch, the stretch unbearable, but just as he opened his mouth to protest, the guy shifted his angle slightly, and then it wasn’t just pain. A sound escaped Hunter’s throat as pleasure sparked low in his gut, unexpected and unwelcome. The guy chuckled, breath hot against Hunter’s neck. "There you go," he murmured, like he’d been waiting for it.
The pace didn’t slow, but the pain blurred into something else, a strange mix of too much and not enough. Hunter’s body moved without permission, his legs tightening around the guy’s waist. He hated how good it felt, hated how easily his body betrayed him. The guy’s fingers dug into him and Hunter could already picture the bruises blooming later, dark fingerprints against his skin, proof of this.
"Look at you," the guy rasped, his voice rough like he’d been gargling gravel. His thrusts turned uneven, erratic. "Fuck, you’re gonna make me..." He didn’t finish the sentence. His hips stuttered, and Hunter felt it. The sudden, searing heat flooding inside him. The realization hit a second too late.
Hunter’s stomach dropped. His voice cracked. "And you said you were clean?"
The guy pulled out with a wet sound, slapping against Hunter's hole a few times before tucking himself back into his jeans like nothing had happened. His smirk was back, lazy and self-satisfied. "I am." He wiped his hand on the sheets, then reached for his jacket. "Just don’t like condoms."
The guy shrugged, zipping his jeans. He grabbed his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder like they’d just finished a study session. "See you in class."
Hunter’s hands shook as he yanked his underwear back up, the mess between his thighs making his skin crawl. He wanted to scream, to throw something, but the guy was already at the door, turning the lock with a casual flick of his wrist.
Then he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Oh, and Hunter?" That smirk again, like he knew something Hunter didn’t. "Drink more water. Be sure to keep yourself hydrated, man." The door clicked shut behind him.
Hunter didn’t move for a long time. The room smelled like sex and sweat, the sheets tangled and damp beneath him. He should shower. He should act. He didn’t know what he should do. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, a text from his roommate asking if he wanted to grab dinner. Hunter ignored it.
Three weeks later, Hunter sat in the same lecture hall, his notebook open but untouched. Granola Guy hadn’t shown up since that afternoon, and Hunter told himself he was relieved. But then he’d catch a glimpse of him in the cafeteria, or leaning against a bike rack outside the library, always just watching. Never approaching.
Hunter’s stomach twisted every time. He told himself it was anger. Then the nausea started.
Initially, he blamed the dining hall food. Then the stress of midterms. But when he woke up one morning and vomited into his trash can before his alarm even went off, he knew.
The pregnancy test sat on the edge of his sink, two pink lines glaring up at him. Hunter stared at his reflection in the mirror. He was pale, hollow-eyed, his hand pressed to his flat stomach.
Granola Guy’s voice echoed in his head. Stay hydrated. Why would he say that?
Hunter’s knees gave out. He sank to the bathroom floor, the tiles cold against his bare calves, and for the first time in years, he bawled.
Hunter scrubbed his face with shaking hands, the bathroom tiles digging into his kneecaps as he tried to steady his breathing. The pregnancy test was still there, mocking him from the sink ledge. He grabbed it, shoved it into the empty tampon box under the sink, like hiding it would undo the result. His phone buzzed again. It was his roommate, probably. He should text back. He should do a lot of things. Instead, he pressed his forehead to the mirror, the glass cooling his flushed skin.
The nausea came back in waves. Hunter heaved into the toilet, his stomach empty but his body insistent. When he finally stood, his legs wobbled like a fawn’s. He splashed water on his face, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror. The dorm room outside the bathroom felt too loud, too bright, even though it was empty. His laptop was open on his bed, an unfinished essay blinking on the screen. He shut it with a snap.
Three days passed in a blur of skipped classes and crackers eaten in bed. Hunter only left to use the bathroom or when his roommate dragged him to the dining hall, where he pushed food around his plate until he gave up. On the fourth day, he found himself standing outside the campus health center, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. The door swung open as a group of laughing girls exited, their arms full of condoms and pamphlets. Hunter ducked his head and stepped inside before he could change his mind.
The nurse at the front desk didn’t look up from her computer. "Name and student ID?" Hunter opened his mouth, then hesitated. His voice came out hoarse. "Do you, uh. Do you have to report this? Like, to the school?" The nurse’s fingers paused over the keyboard. Her eyes flicked to his face, then away. "Only if you’re under eighteen or in immediate danger," she said, softer now. Hunter swallowed. "Hunter Walsh. ID’s 440293."
The doctor was clinical, kind in a detached way. She asked about dates, symptoms, protection. Hunter lied through his teeth. "Condom broke," he muttered, staring at the stirrups. The ultrasound gel was cold on his stomach, the wand pressing just below his navel. The screen showed a grainy, peanut-shaped blur. "About eight weeks," the doctor said. Hunter closed his eyes.
He walked back to his dorm in a daze, the printout of resources crumpled in his fist. The clinic had given him options, pamphlets, a referral to an off-campus provider. He’d shoved it all in his backpack like contraband. Rounding the corner of the humanities building, he froze. Granola Guy leaned against the bike rack, cigarette dangling from his lips. Their eyes met. The guy exhaled smoke, slow, deliberate. Then he grinned.
Hunter’s stomach lurched. He veered sharply toward the dorm, his pulse hammering in his ears. Behind him, a laugh that was low and knowing. A voice called out, just loud enough to carry: "Thirsty, Hunter?"
Hunter's fingers clenched around the straps of his backpack until his knuckles turned white. He didn't look back, didn't give Granola Guy the satisfaction of seeing his face twist with rage. The dorm stairs blurred under his feet as he took them two at a time, his breath coming in ragged bursts. Inside, he slammed the door so hard the framed poster of the solar system above his bed rattled. His roommate wasn't home. He had to appreciate the small mercies.
He paced the length of the room three times before sinking onto his bed, the springs creaking under his weight. The ultrasound photo peeked out from his unzipped backpack, the edges crumpled where he'd gripped it too tightly. Hunter snatched it up, intending to tear it to shreds, but hesitated. His thumb brushed over the grainy image. Eight weeks. Two months of Granola Guy slipping God-knows-what into his water bottle while he took notes on Renaissance poetry. The thought made bile rise in his throat.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: *People are going to notice you missing classes.* Hunter's blood ran cold. He hadn't given Granola Guy his number. Another buzz: *You look good when you're scared.* The screen blurred as Hunter's vision tunneled. He blocked the number with shaking fingers, then immediately unblocked it. Evidence. He needed evidence. He took a screenshot, hands trembling so badly he had to try three times before it registered.
That night, Hunter lay awake staring at the ceiling, the digital clock on his desk ticking past 3 AM. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Granola Guy's smirk, the way his eyes had tracked the slight bloat of Hunter's stomach beneath his hoodie. A cramp twisted low in his abdomen, sharp enough to make him wince. He curled onto his side, pressing his palms against the ache. The first time it happened, he'd panicked, convinced he was miscarrying. Now he just waited it out, teeth gritted, until the pain faded to a dull throb.
Morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across Hunter's rumpled sheets. He'd finally dozed off around dawn, but his phone alarm shattered what little peace he'd found. Three new messages from the unknown number. He didn't open them. Instead, he pulled up the campus security website, cursor hovering over the anonymous tip form. His finger hovered over the trackpad. What would he even say? *A guy got me pregnant and it's kinda my fault for not making sure he actually put on a condom?* The security office was two buildings over. He could walk there right now.
Hunter stood so fast his desk chair rolled into the wall. He yanked open his closet, searching for the baggiest sweatshirt he owned. As he shrugged it on, his reflection in the mirror caught his eye. The sweatshirt drowned him, but the angle of morning light caught the subtle curve of his lower belly. He grabbed a scarf and wound it tight around his waist, knotting it twice.
The knock at the door made him jump. His roommate's voice called through the wood, "You alive in there? You missed Lit." Hunter unlocked the door, forcing his face into something neutral. His roommate, Jess, frowned at him, his nose ring glinting in the sunlight. "You look like shit," he said, blunt as always.
"Midterm stress," Hunter lied, rubbing his eyes for effect. Jess didn't look convinced, but he held out a paper coffee cup. "Here. You owe me four bucks." The warmth seeped into his palms as he took it. He pretended not to notice Jess's eyes flicking to his waist, the way the scarf bunched oddly over his hips.
As Jess turned to leave, Hunter blurted, "What would you do if someone was..." He bit his lip, rewording. "If you found out someone had been, like, drugging you?"
Jess's eyebrows shot up. "What the fuck, Hunter. Who drugged you?"
He studied him for a long moment, then pulled out his phone. "Hypothetically, I'd go to the fucking police." He tapped his screen a few times before shoving it at him. A local detective's contact info glared up at him. "Or at least campus security. They have to investigate that shit."
Hunter stared at the number. The ultrasound photo burned a hole in his pocket. Granola Guy's texts sat heavy in his inbox. Somewhere on campus, that bastard was probably smirking right now, waiting to see how long Hunter would flail before drowning.
Jess was still watching him. Hunter shoved the phone back at him. "Thanks," he muttered. "Just a stupid thought." He took a gulp of coffee, then froze, the liquid burning his tongue. *Drink more water.* He set the cup down too hard, scalding liquid sloshing over the rim.
By week twelve, Hunter could no longer ignore his stomach under hoodies. His binder sat unused in his bottom drawer because the pressure had become too much. He took to wearing loose button-ups stolen from his dad’s last care package, the fabric straining over his hips. Every morning, he traced the new stretch marks forming just below his navel, angry red lines that seemed to mock him.
The texts from the unknown number came less frequently now, but they still made Hunter’s hands shake whenever his phone buzzed. *You’re showing.* Then, days later: *I can see it when you walk.* Hunter stopped checking his messages altogether.
His professors started noticing. Dr. Lenz, the Renaissance poetry lecturer, pulled him aside after class one Tuesday. "Hunter," she said, adjusting her glasses. "You’ve missed three quizzes." The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Hunter could feel Granola Guy’s absence in the empty seat two rows over, like a ghost limb. "I’ll make them up," he lied. Dr. Lenz’s gaze flicked to his stomach, then away. "See that you do."
The campus health center called twice to confirm his next prenatal appointment. Hunter deleted the voicemails. He stopped answering his dorm phone entirely after the third time a deep, familiar voice asked if he’d been staying hydrated.
Jess found him puking in their shared bathroom one October morning, his forehead pressed against the cool porcelain. He didn’t say anything, just handed him a wet washcloth and sat cross legged on the tile beside him. After a long silence, he said, "You know you can’t ignore this forever, right?" Hunter wiped his mouth. The ultrasound photo was still tucked in his wallet, edges frayed from how often he’d taken it out to stare at it in secret.
"I’m handling it," he said.
Jess snorted. "Yeah. Real healthy."
That night, Hunter lay awake, one hand resting on the hard curve of his stomach. A sharp kick startled him, the first unmistakable movement. His breath caught. For one traitorous moment, his throat tightened with something that wasn’t dread. Then his phone lit up with a new message: *Can’t wait to see how you look at twenty weeks.*
Hunter threw his phone across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying crack.
By Thanksgiving break, he’d stopped going to classes altogether. The walk across campus had become exhausting, his back aching from the weight. His dad’s old shirts no longer buttoned over his stomach. He took to wearing Jess’s oversized sweaters, the fabric stretching tight over his belly.
Jess cornered him one evening, his arms crossed. "You’re not fooling anyone," he said, nodding at his stomach. "You need to figure your shit out."
Hunter looked away. Outside the window, snow drifted lazily to the ground. Somewhere out there, Granola Guy was probably watching the same snowfall, that same smirk on his face.
"I know," Hunter said. But he didn’t move. Didn’t call the detective whose number Jess had forced into his contacts. Didn’t schedule the termination the clinic had offered.
Instead, he cupped the swell of his stomach with both hands and wondered how much bigger he’d get before it was over.
The Christmas lights strung across the dorm hallway blinked in erratic patterns, casting red and green shadows over Hunter’s swollen stomach as he waddled past. His lungs pressed against his ribs now when he breathed too deep, and his hips ached constantly, like they were being pried apart with crowbars. He’d started counting his steps between rests. Twenty to the bathroom, forty to the vending machine, eighty if he dared to venture outside. Today, he’d made it to the mailroom. The package from his father sat heavy in his hands, unopened. Probably another sweater two sizes too small.
Back in his room, Hunter dropped onto his bed with a grunt, the mattress sagging under his new weight. The baby shifted, just below his ribs, making him gasp. He pressed his palm there, feeling the ripple under his skin. *Stop it*, he thought, and immediately hated himself. The movement slowed, as if the thing inside him had heard. Hunter exhaled through his nose. The ultrasound in his wallet said it was a girl. He hadn’t told anyone, not even Jess.
His phone buzzed. The unknown number again. *Merry Christmas. You’re glowing.* Hunter’s fingers hovered over the screen. He could picture Granola Guy leaning against some snow dusted bike rack right now, watching Hunter’s darkened window from across the quad. The thought should’ve made him nauseous. Instead, he found himself staring at his reflection in the black screen. His cheeks rounder, lips chapped, dark circles under his eyes. He *did* look different. He looked truly pregnant.
By New Year’s, Hunter had developed a routine. Wake up at noon when the dorm was empty, shuffle to the communal kitchen to microwave frozen pancakes, then back to bed to stare at the ceiling until his bladder forced him up again. Jess had gone home for the holidays, leaving him alone with the creaking pipes and the relentless kicking. Sometimes, he talked to it. But not in the sweet, expectant-mother way the parenting forums described, but in clipped, half-formed sentences. *You’re crushing my spleen. Knock it off.*
The spring semester started without him. Emails from the registrar piled up in his inbox, subject lines growing increasingly urgent: *ACADEMIC PROBATION*, *MEDICAL LEAVE REQUEST REQUIRED*, *FINAL NOTICE*. Hunter marked them all as read and didn’t reply. His stomach had grown too big to hide now, the skin stretched taut and shiny. He’d stopped wearing pants altogether, opting for Jess’s ratty bathrobe tied loosely under his bump. The stretch marks had multiplied, angry red streaks branching out like lightning across his hips.
One February morning, Hunter woke to a seizing pain low in his back. He rolled onto his side, gripping the headboard as his muscles contracted in waves. False labor, probably. The clinic had warned him about this. He counted the seconds between cramps, nails digging into the cheap plywood. When it passed, he reached for his phone then froze. A shadow moved outside his window. Broad shoulders, the familiar slope of a leather jacket. Hunter held his breath. The shadow lingered for one long minute, then melted into the predawn gray.
The baby kicked again, harder this time. Hunter pressed his thumb into the spot, as if he could push it back. "We’re not doing this," he muttered. But his hands shook as he pulled up the detective’s contact. The cursor blinked in the empty message field. Outside, snow began to fall. Somewhere out there, Granola Guy was watching. Waiting. Hunter deleted the draft and turned off his phone.
Hunter's breath came in short, ragged gasps as a contraction seized him, his fingers twisting in the damp sheets beneath him. The dorm room smelled of sweat and something metallic, the air thick with the scent of his own body betraying him. He'd stripped naked hours ago, the fabric of his clothes unbearable against his overheated skin. Now he lay on his hands and knees, the weight of his belly resting on the mattress beneath him, the hard curve of it a grotesque parody of the athlete he used to be. A trail of milk dripped from his swollen nipples, pooling on the sheets. His body was preparing to deliver a child he'd never wanted.
The pain crested, and Hunter bit down on his own forearm to stifle a cry, teeth breaking skin. Blood mixed with sweat on his tongue. He should call someone. Jess. The health center. An ambulance. But the thought of strangers seeing him like this, of being exposed under fluorescent lights with his legs spread, made his stomach lurch worse than any contraction. He could do this alone. He had to.
Then the doorknob jiggled.
Hunter froze, his breath hitching. The lock clicked, once, twice, the sound deliberate, practiced. He didn't bother reaching for a blanket. Didn't even turn his head. He knew. A sob broke free from his throat, quiet and broken, as the door swung open.
Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of snow and cigarette smoke. Leather creaked as Granola Guy stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. Hunter didn't look up, but he could feel the weight of that gaze raking over his bare back, staring at the way his belly hung heavy between his legs.
"Well, look at you." The voice was just as Hunter remembered. It was low, rough, smirking without needing to see his face. Boots scuffed against the floor as Granola Guy circled the bed, coming to stand in front of him. Hunter kept his eyes down, trained on the man's scuffed work boots, the frayed hem of his jeans. A hand reached out, calloused fingers brushing Hunter's damp forehead, pushing his hair back. The touch was almost gentle.
Another contraction ripped through him, and his spine arched involuntarily. Granola Guy crouched in front of him, close enough that Hunter could see the chipped black polish on his nails, the fresh scrape across his knuckles. "You're close," he murmured, shockingly certain of that statement. His palm settled on the curve of Hunter's belly, pressing down just as the next contraction hit. Hunter whimpered, his thighs shaking.
"Stop," he choked out, but his body wasn't listening. It was pushing, muscles clenching with a mind of their own. Granola Guy's hand slid lower, between Hunter's legs, fingers probing. Hunter flinched, but there was nowhere to go, no way to escape the intimacy of those rough fingers checking his progress. "Crowning," Granola Guy announced, his breath hot against Hunter's ear. "You gonna push, or do I have to make you?"
Hunter’s scream tore through the room as Granola Guy’s fingers pressed inside him, the sudden rush of fluid hot between his thighs. The pain was blinding, white static behind his eyelids, but worse was the roughness in those hands, the way they moved like they owned every inch of him. "There we go," Granola Guy murmured, withdrawing his fingers slick with amniotic fluid. He wiped them on Hunter’s bare thigh, leaving a wet streak. "Now we don’t have to wait anymore."
The contractions came faster after that, each one a vise around Hunter’s spine. He braced himself against the mattress, his arms shaking, but Granola Guy grabbed his hips and yanked him forward. "On your back," he ordered. When Hunter didn’t move fast enough, those rough hands flipped him effortlessly, his swollen belly heaving with the motion. Hunter barely had time to process the indignity before the next contraction hit, his body seizing with the urge to push. He gritted his teeth, fighting it, but Granola Guy leaned over him, his breath stale with tobacco. "Do it," he growled. "Or I’ll fucking make you."
The pain was worse than anything he’d imagined. It was a splitting, burning stretch that made his vision go black at the edges. He could feel Granola Guy’s fingers there again, spreading him wider, the sting of tearing flesh sharp between his legs. "Good," Granola Guy muttered, his voice oddly distant. "Almost there." Hunter barely heard him over the roar of blood in his ears. One more push, a scream ripping from his throat, and then release. A wet, slippery weight slid free, followed by a thin, reedy cry.
Granola Guy caught the baby effortlessly, his hands cradling the tiny body with a possessiveness that made Hunter’s stomach turn. He didn’t offer the child to Hunter. Didn’t even look at him. Just wiped the blood and vernix from her skin with the edge of his shirt, his touch eerily gentle. Hunter lay there, panting, his legs still spread. He wanted to reach for her. He didn’t.
Granola Guy pulled a folded note from his back pocket and dropped it onto Hunter’s stomach, the paper sticking to his sweat-slick skin. Then he turned, the baby tucked securely against his chest, and walked out without a word. The door clicked shut behind him.
Hunter stared at the ceiling, his chest heaving. The note slid slightly with each breath, but he waited, five seconds, ten, before peeling it off. The handwriting was neat, almost clinical:
*Pump every three hours. Leave bottles in the blue locker outside the gym. The combination is 12-24-36.*
*P.S. Knew you’d be perfect for this. Let’s do it again soon.*
Hunter’s hands shook so badly the paper rattled. Down the hall, someone’s stereo played a pop song faintly through the walls, the bass thumping like a second heartbeat. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windowpane. Somewhere out there, Granola Guy was buckling his daughter into a car seat, adjusting the straps with those same deft hands that had forced her into existence.
Hunter rolled onto his side and vomited onto the floor.
When the afterbirth came, he barely noticed. The cramps were dull compared to what had come before, the mess between his thighs insignificant. He lay there for a long time, his empty stomach aching, the note crumpled in his fist. Eventually, he forced himself up, wincing as his torn flesh pulled. The bathroom seemed miles away.
Under the fluorescent lights, his reflection was ghastly and pale and hollow, his stomach still rounded but softer now, deflated. He turned on the shower and stepped in without waiting for the water to warm. The spray stung his fresh wounds, but he didn’t adjust the temperature. Just stood there, letting it turn his skin red, until the water ran cold.
Back in the room, his phone buzzed. An unknown number, again. He didn’t check it. Just stared at the bloodstained sheets, the note now a sodden ball on the nightstand. Somewhere, his daughter was crying. And Granola Guy was smiling.
