She didn’t mean to fall in love.

Not really, anyway. Cate Dunlap doesn’t do that kind of thing. She flirts, she teases, she curates whole personalities around the people she wants—becomes the version of herself they’ll crave the most, and then disappears when they get too close.

But you? You’re the kind of girl who gets close anyway. Who lingers in doorways and presses your mouth to Cate’s throat like you belong there. Who walks around Cate’s dorm shirtless and barefoot and beautiful, like you both didn’t agree this was supposed to be casual.

It’s not casual anymore.

Cate feels it when she’s alone. In the mornings, when she’s still in your shirt. At night, when she’s trying to write essays and ends up googling pink fuzzy handcuffs instead. It's worse when you’re not around. Cate finds herself circling back to everything you’ve done together. Everything you could do together. Every single position you two haven’t tried yet.

And then—there’s the other thing.

The way you touch her. Possessive. Reverent. Like you knows Cate is already yours and you’re just deciding how hard you want to prove it.

Cate bites her lip at the memory. Her own reflection stares back from the mirror—lips swollen, eyes wild, tank top slipping down one shoulder. You left a hickey on her ribcage last night. Had traced your tongue along the underside of Cate's breast and whispered something like mine against her skin.

Cate had pretended not to care.

She definitely came.

Now it’s a Thursday, and she’s pretending she doesn’t have her vibrator hidden under the pillow, pretending she’s not waiting to hear the knock on her door. She posted a thirst trap on her story an hour ago just to speed things along. It worked. You sent a fire emoji and a cryptic you up? that Cate didn’t bother answering.

Because she knew what would come next.

A knock.

Cate grins.

She opens the door in nothing but a robe. Silk. Pale pink.

Your jaw drops. “Holy shit.”

Cate shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You rang?”

You’re already crowding into her space. Cate lets you. It’s half the fun—being wanted. Being pinned. Your hands are already at her waist, gripping through silk, pulling her flush.

“God,” you groan, mouth against her neck. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“You like the robe?”

“I like what’s under it more.”

Cate hums, lets her knee nudge between your thighs. “You gonna say hi first, or just try to fuck me against the door again?”

You grin. “Hi.”

Then kiss her.

It doesn’t take long for you two to stumble back into Cate’s dorm, clothes trailing behind like breadcrumbs. Cate’s breathless when she lands on the bed, robe untied, legs parted shamelessly.

You look like you’ve been hit by a freight train.

“You’re so fucking hot,” you say, crawling up between Cate’s thighs. “Do you know what you do to me?”

Cate arches a brow. “Tell me.”

You don't. You show her.

Cate moans when she’s touched—soft, needy, already wet. You murmur something about how she’s always like this for you, how it’s criminal, how you can’t think when Cate looks at you like that.

Cate locks her ankles behind your back.

“Fuck me like you mean it,” she whispers.

You do.

Later, much later, Cate’s still catching her breath—legs sore, sheets ruined, mouth raw from kisses. She watches you lie back, shirtless and smug, arm slung over your face like you’re trying to recover from war.

Cate should get up. Shower. Reapply her lip balm.

Instead, she sits up on her knees, straddles your lap, and leans down until your faces are only inches apart.

“Hey,” she says sweetly.

You crack an eye open.

Cate brushes a hand down your chest. “Do you wanna get me pregnant?”

You choke.

Cate just giggles, delighted.

“I mean,” she teases, dragging her nails down your stomach, “I’ve been thinking about it.”

You're wide-eyed now. “Cate—”

“I showed my friends a picture of you,” Cate continues, unfazed. “They high-fived me. Said your genetics were elite. And I mean—look at you.”

She leans closer, lips brushing your jaw.

“I might let you knock me up…if you love me right,” she whispers.

You groan.

“That’s not funny.”

Cate grins. “I think it is.”

“You’re dangerous,” you mutter, rolling over so you’re on top again. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Cate licks into your mouth, tugging at your hair. “Worse. Gonna lock you down for life.”

Neither of you say I love you.

Not yet.

But Cate can feel it every time you stay the night. Every time you wash her hair for her, or make coffee in her dorm, or leave your dumb Converse on the doormat like they live here now.

Cate’s not even mad.

In fact, one night she reaches for the fuzzy pink handcuffs she bought as a joke and holds them up with a lazy little smile.

Your pupils blow wide.

“You’re not serious,” you say, voice rough.

Cate tilts her head. “What if I am?”

Your breath catches.

Cate tosses them onto the bed, crawls toward you like a cat. “You love me,” she sings softly, “don’t you, baby?”

“I—”

Cate straddles your lap, slides her arms around your neck. “Say it.”

You swallow hard.

Then whisper, “Yeah. Fuck. I do.”

Cate kisses you.

You’re still not official—not technically. You haven’t had the talk. There’s no label, no Instagram posts, no toothbrush in the other’s dorm (though Cate’s left her lip gloss and your sweatshirt smells like her perfume). But the tension hums with inevitability. Cate feels it when you pull her in like she belongs there. When she gets called baby in that wrecked, reverent voice.

So Cate still plays coy in public—keeps her hands to herself, lets you stew when other people flirt with her. It’s not malicious, not really. It’s just that Cate wants to be claimed. Wants to be known.

Wants you to say it out loud: mine.

Sometimes, when you’re alone, you do.

Other times, Cate coaxes it out of you.

“You like me?” she’ll whisper, mouth hot against your collarbone.

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

You groan. “Enough to fuck a baby into you if you keep talking like that.”

Cate smirks.

And one day, she catches herself staring at you from across the room—shirtless again, working on your guitar, humming to yourself like you’re alone—and the thought hits her so hard it nearly knocks the wind out of her.

You’re the one I want.

Not just to fuck. Not just to tease. Not just to break hearts with—but to build a future for.

Cate blinks.

She thinks of matching tattoos. Of shared apartments. Of tiny shoes lined up by the door.

Cate bites her lip.

Maybe she’ll bring it up tomorrow.

But tonight?

Tonight she lets you wreck her. Lets you kiss every inch of skin like you’ll never get the chance again. Cate trembles under your hands. Moans like her life depends on it. Drags nails down your back and tells you, softly, breathlessly:

“You’re the only one.”

You look up, flushed and reverent.

“Prove it,” you whisper.

Cate does.

And Cate lets herself believe in forever.

Because even though they’re not official. (Yet.)

Cate’s never been one to wait her turn.

When she said “I just might let you knock me up” it wasn’t just a line—it was a threat. A challenge. A fantasy she’s started seriously considering. Because if you won’t call her your girlfriend, maybe you’ll call her mommy. She figures it’s a shortcut to commitment, that just might come in the form of an accidentally-on-purpose missed pill.

And the worst part? She’s not even sure it’s a joke anymore.

Cate thinks about your genetics. Your hands, your jaw, the jut of your hips, the square of your shoulders. The way you kiss like you want to stay. And suddenly, it’s not just dirty talk. It’s a question: What would happen if I made this real? Would you run? Or would you stay, lock Cate down, and love her so hard you never even think about leaving?

Cate’s betting on the latter.

Cate doesn’t mean to do it.

(That’s a lie. She definitely means to.)

It starts with a missed pill. One. She notices it the next morning—sees the little blue dot still nestled in its perfect plastic curve—and doesn’t bother catching up. Doesn’t panic. Doesn’t even blink.

You’ve already kissed her that day. Called her baby. Bit her shoulder hard enough to bruise and whispered I’m so obsessed with you it’s fucked up.

So really, what’s one little pill?

What’s three?

What’s a week?

Cate doesn’t bring it up. Of course she doesn’t. She flirts. She giggles. She rides you like she owns you. She wraps her arms around your neck afterward and traces little hearts into your skin.

“You’re so good to me,” she purrs one night, forehead pressed to your chest.

Your fingers drift through her hair, lazy and gentle. “Of course I am.”

Cate closes her eyes and lets herself sink into it. Into the warmth of you. The steadiness. The deep, unwavering way you hold her like she’s something precious.

Something worth protecting.

You start doing it raw.

That’s not new. Cate let it happen the first time you begged—desperate, trembling, practically crying as you came inside her.

You both swore it was just a one-time thing.

It’s not.

Now it’s every time. Cate always opens her legs with a soft sigh, lips parted, lashes fluttering. You can do whatever you want to me, she whispers, and you fucking do.

Cate doesn’t say the word. Doesn’t have to. She lets you press a hand to her belly after, lets you whisper mine mine mine with your whole body still shaking.

Cate is already tracking her cycle.

She buys prenatal vitamins on the low. Uses her powers on the pharmacist so they don’t look too closely at her age or her ID. She starts eating fruit. Drinking less. Cuts caffeine—not that you notice. You’re too busy being in love.

Cate keeps a straight face through it all.

But every time she lets you come inside her, she bites her lip and thinks, Go ahead, baby. Let’s see how serious you are.

The first time she gets queasy, she blames the sushi.

The second time, she blames the heat.

By the fifth morning she’s brushing her teeth and gagging over the sink, she buys a test.

It’s digital. No room for interpretation.

Cate sits on the bathroom floor in her tiny silk pajama set and watches the little screen load like it’s a bomb ticking down.

And then—

PREGNANT.

Her hands are shaking.

She starts to laugh.

She doesn’t tell you right away.

Not because she’s scared. She’s not. She’s just savoring it.

She watches you pace around her dorm in nothing but boxers, all tattoos and attitude, swigging orange juice from the carton like a goddamn husband.

Cate touches her own stomach when you aren't looking.

She’s got something you don't know about yet. Something that might ruin everything—or make it real.

Finally, she cracks.

She waits until you’re stretched out on the couch, shirt riding up, one arm flung over your eyes like you’re too hot to function.

Cate pads over, climbs into your lap, and sits on you.

You grunt. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I have something to tell you.”

You lift your arm, meet her eyes. “Okay?”

Cate reaches behind her back, pulls the test from her robe pocket, and presses it into your palm.

You stare.

Cate doesn’t look away.

There’s a long, impossible silence.

Then—

“You’re kidding.”

Cate doesn’t smile.

“I’m not.”

You sit bolt upright, nearly dumping her onto the floor.

“Cate.”

Cate shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Oops?”

You stare at her, jaw clenched, hands shaking. “Are you serious?”

Cate leans in. “Dead serious.”

“Are you actually pregnant right now?”

She tilts her head. “You said you loved me.”

“I do—”

Cate kisses you. Slow. Deep. Possessive.

When she pulls back, she murmurs, “Good. Then I’m yours. All the way.”

You're breathing like you just ran ten miles.

Cate traces her fingers down your chest. “You gonna keep me now, daddy?”

You groan, tipping your head back.

Cate smiles.

She’s never felt more powerful in her life.

The days that follow are a blur of shock and tenderness.

You spiral, of course. You buy seven more pregnancy tests, forcing Cate to take them all. You read every label in the grocery store, start making Cate smoothies with spinach and chia seeds.

Cate lets you panic. Lets you overcompensate. It’s cute, honestly.

And it only takes three days before you start curling around her belly like it’s sacred. Whisper into it. Kiss her navel like you’re already in love with something you made together.

Cate watches you do it one night—watched you tremble with it—and realizes she’s already won.

She was never scared of keeping you.

She was scared you wouldn’t want to be kept.

But now?

Now you look at her like she hung the fucking moon. You bring her flowers and prenatal vitamins in the same trip. Tuck her into bed and brush her hair behind her ear and say things like our baby without choking on it.

Cate doesn’t say I love you.

But one night she pulls your hand over her belly, kisses your neck, and whispers:

“You should’ve pulled out.”

You growl.

Cate grins.

She knows it’s a little evil. The timing. The secrecy. The way she pulled you closer without ever asking permission.

But Cate Dunlap has never played fair. And she knows—deep in her twisted, complicated heart—that no one will ever love her like you do.

And now?

Now she has proof.

One of her was cute.

But two?

Cate’s gonna look so fucking good with a baby on her hip and a ring on her finger.

She curls into your side, satisfied.

And falls asleep with her hand over her stomach.