Oliver stood at the window with a cup of tea that had long gone cold in his hands. The apartment was dim, lit only by the soft, golden haze of late afternoon sun. Outside, cars passed quietly. Nothing had changed out there — but inside him, everything had shifted.

Lucas had found him. Not once but twice already. And worse, Lucas knew.

The receipt he’d dropped when he got home still sat on the floor by the door. He hadn’t had the energy to pick it up right away. Instead, he’d sat on the floor for over an hour, hand on his belly, listening to the slow rhythm of his own breathing and the occasional flutter of movement from inside.

He’d promised himself this pregnancy would be his — calm, safe, on his terms.

It was time to follow through.

His laptop sat on the kitchen counter. He opened it, fingers moving slower than usual, but steady. A folder labeled Plan B was already there. He’d started it weeks ago — just in case. North Bridge had always been his backup. He knew the town from his prenatal visits, liked the way the streets felt tucked away from the rest of the world. The clinic staff knew his name. They never asked unnecessary questions.

He clicked through tabs: housing listings, moving companies, virtual assistant clients he’d be able to keep even after relocating. The to-do list was long, but doable.

1. Notify landlord — give 30 days’ notice.

2. Schedule next prenatal appointment in North Bridge.

3. Transfer utilities.

4. Find a moving company that doesn’t cost everything.

5. Start sorting what to pack, what to donate.

6. Breathe.

The last one he typed slowly. Then bolded it.

He stood up, stretched, and walked over to the bedroom closet. It was time to start. Every small action was a reminder that he was still in control.

He started with the baby clothes — the tiny onesies, the soft knit booties he’d bought on sale. Each fold was a decision. He opened a cardboard box, labeled it with a marker: Nursery – North Bridge.

The quiet was interrupted only by the hum of the fan and the occasional sound of his phone buzzing from the kitchen. He didn’t look. He already knew who it was. 

He paused by the bookshelf next, fingertips trailing along the spines of paperbacks and half-finished journals. One of them was from a year ago — a blue notebook he’d kept hidden during his relationship with Lucas. It had notes about dreams he wasn’t allowed to say out loud. Plans for a remote life, a small garden, maybe adopting a dog one day.

He opened to a page in the middle and stared.

“I just want a life that feels like mine. No one’s shadow. Just mine.”

He swallowed hard.

That night, he didn’t sleep much. Packing turned into sorting, sorting turned into memories, and somewhere around midnight, he sat on the floor surrounded by boxes and let the tears come.

Not loud. Not frantic. Just quiet — years of compromise slipping out in the form of tears he hadn’t realized he was holding back.

When it was over, he wiped his face, took a shaky breath, and reached for his phone.

He pulled up the contact for the North Bridge clinic. His voice shook a little when he asked to confirm his next appointment, but the receptionist was kind. Familiar.

It felt like an anchor.

The next morning, he wrote the email to his landlord. Then another to his clients, letting them know he’d be moving but would remain available.

With every task, the air in the apartment felt less stifling. He could breathe again.

This wasn’t just about running. It was about building.

And for the first time in weeks, he looked down at his belly and smiled — just a little.

“We’re going somewhere better,” he whispered. “Somewhere we can start over.” And hopefully, Lucas won't look for me there. Since he mentioned Naomi told him, that means she can't be trusted again.