He walked back into the great room, the plastic stick digging into his palm.

Chloe was on the rug, her body a pale curve against the dark wool. She reached for him, her mouth a hungry 'O', but her eyes were just reflective surfaces. Empty. He looked at her and saw nothing. Heard nothing but the high, thin whine of his own blood in his ears.

He didn't speak. He pushed her down, his hand flat between her shoulder blades. The silk of her robe parted. Her skin was cool. He fumbled with his sweatpants and shoved them down his hips. His cock was hard, a purely mechanical response to the sight of a naked woman, already slick from her mouth earlier. It meant nothing.

He entered her in one rough motion. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath that sounded rehearsed. He drove into her, his hips pistoning, his gaze fixed on the far wall where a painting hung crooked. He was fucking the ghost in the bathroom. The ghost of April, standing right there, holding that little plastic wand. The ghost of a possibility that turned his stomach to ice.

Chloe moaned. She arched her back, pressed herself against him. "Yes, Robin. Just like that."

Her voice was a buzz. Static. Sasha knelt beside them, her fingers tracing his spine, her lips at his ear. She whispered something filthy. He didn't hear the words. All he heard was the screaming silence of that red ring. Positive. A life. A consequence.

His rhythm was punishing, a metronome of oblivion. The wet slap of their bodies filled the cold room. Heat built where they were joined, a slick, frictionless heat that should have been pleasure. It was just data. Pressure. Release. He chased it like a chore.

Chloe's moans climbed higher. She was close, or pretending to be. Her fingers clawed at the rug. He looked down at the back of her head, her blonde hair spilling across the dark wool. For a second, he imagined it was darker. Longer. He imagined a different gasp. A different name on his lips.

He shut his eyes. Tight. He thrust harder, deeper, trying to bury the image. Trying to fill the hollowed-out space in his chest with this, with the physical, with the now. But the now was just this room. This chill. These strangers.

His climax gathered, a low, inevitable tide in his groin. It built without passion, a biological function reaching its terminus. He grunted, a harsh, animal sound, as it ripped through him. He shuddered, his hips stuttering, emptying himself into her with a series of jerking pulses.

It left him emptier than before.

He stayed inside her for a moment, braced on his hands, head hanging. His breath sawed in and out. The room came back into focus. The crooked painting. The dust motes in the cold morning light. The smell of sex and stale champagne.

He pulled out. The sound was wet, final. He straightened up, pulling his sweatpants back over his hips without looking at either of them. His cock, already softening, felt alien. A tool put away.

Chloe rolled onto her back, her skin flushed. She smiled up at him, lazy, satisfied. "Wow."

Sasha handed her a robe. "Told you he was intense."

Robin walked to the bar. He poured three fingers of whiskey from a half-empty bottle, his hand steady. He drank it in one burning gulp. It didn't touch the cold.

He could feel them watching him. Heard the rustle as they dressed. The pregnancy test was still in his left hand. He’d forgotten he was holding it. The plastic edges had left red marks in his palm.

"You okay, superstar?" Chloe asked, her voice light. "You got quiet."

He didn't turn around. He stared at the empty glass in his hand. "You should go."

The silence behind him was different now. Thick.

"Sure," Sasha said after a beat. Her tone was cool, professional. "We'll see ourselves out."

He listened to the sounds of their departure. The click of heels on marble. The soft snick of the front door closing. Then, nothing.

Alone in the great room, the silence was absolute. It had weight. It pressed in from the high ceilings, from the vast windows overlooking the manicured lawn. He looked down at the test in his hand. The little window. The red ring.

He walked to the nearest trash can, a sleek bronze thing by the sofa. He held the stick over it. His fingers wouldn't open. They were locked around the plastic, a white-knuckled grip.

He stood there for a long time, arm extended, trembling slightly. He couldn't drop it. He couldn't keep it. He was trapped in the space between, holding the proof of a future he might have already destroyed.