My cards were garbage. Three mismatched hearts, a seven of spades that didn't belong to anything, and a two of diamonds that was almost insulting. I fanned them anyway, let the corners catch the amber light, and pretended I was weighing a decision instead of counting down the minutes until this hand folded itself.

"You gonna call or you gonna marry those cards?" Derek leaned back, the leather groaning under his broad shoulders. He had a way of smiling that made everything sound like a dare.

"I'm thinking."

"You've been thinking for five minutes."

"It's a big pot."

It wasn't. Forty bucks, maybe. The cigar smoke had settled into a blue haze above the table, and Hal's laugh was still echoing off the walls from some joke Marcus had told before I dealt myself into this disaster. The women were on the couch, their voices a low murmur of gossip and wine, and I could feel the familiar rhythm of the night settling in — the one I'd known for six years, since I was eighteen and showed up on this street with a duffel bag and a startup idea that everyone was too polite to laugh at.

Ellie rose from the couch.

I didn't watch her — I'd learned that trick early. Instead I watched my cards, let my thumb run along the edge of the two of diamonds, and felt the room shift in that particular way that meant she was moving through it. The click of her heels on the hardwood. The soft rustle of her summer dress. She set her wine glass down on the edge of the card table, and the sound was small and precise, a period at the end of some sentence I hadn't heard her speak.

"Hal."

Her voice was quiet. That was the first wrong thing. Ellie didn't do quiet — she laughed loud and talked louder, and when she wanted attention she took it. But this was a different register, softer, almost careful, and I saw Hal's grin falter for half a second before he recovered it.

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"I have something to tell you."

The room didn't stop. Derek was still shuffling his chips, Tommy was still reaching for the stack in front of him, Marcus was still nursing his whiskey. But the air changed. I felt it the way you feel a door open somewhere behind you, a draft you can't trace.

Hal set his cards down. "Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine." Ellie's hand came up to rest on his shoulder, and I watched her fingers curl into the fabric of his polo. "I'm pregnant."

Hal's laugh was already halfway out of his mouth — the big, booming, room-filling sound that was his signature, the one that announced him before he walked through any door. It cut off mid-breath. I saw it happen, saw the sound die in his throat and his eyes go wide, his whole face changing in a single beat.

"You're—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You're pregnant?"

"Yes."

For a moment, nothing moved. The cigar smoke hung there. Derek's chips sat still in his hand. Tommy's arm was frozen in the air, his fingers an inch from the stack he'd been reaching for, like someone had paused him mid-motion.

Then Hal roared.

It wasn't a laugh — it was something bigger, a sound that came up from his belly and filled the whole room, and he was on his feet and pulling Ellie into his arms before I could blink. She disappeared into him, her honey-blond hair spilling over his shoulder, and his hands pressed flat against her back like he was trying to hold all of her at once.

"Jesus Christ," he was saying, "Jesus Christ, Ellie —" and she was laughing into his chest, her voice muffled, her arms coming up to hold him back.

I looked at my cards. The two of diamonds. The seven of spades. Useless, all of it.

Hal pulled back, his hands on Ellie's shoulders, and I saw his eyes move. Just for a second. Just long enough to find me across the table — and the grin on his face was not the one he wore for jokes. It was wider, sharper, a grin that said he knew exactly what he was looking at.

I looked away first.

"Well," Derek said, and his voice had a rough edge I hadn't heard before. "Congratulations." He was smiling, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's — that's great, Hal. Really."

"It's a miracle," Hal said, and he was still grinning, still looking at me, and the word hung in the air like smoke. "A genuine goddamn miracle."

Tommy's hand finally touched the chip stack. He picked up a single chip and turned it over, his eyes fixed on it like it held some answer. "How far along?"

"Eight weeks," Ellie said. She was back in her seat now, smoothing her dress, and she looked calm in a way that didn't match the room. "I saw the doctor yesterday."

Eight weeks. I did the math without meaning to. Eight weeks ago was the night of the game — the night Hal had laughed and nodded and told me to go ahead, and I'd bent Ellie over the good wool rug while the men watched and stroked themselves and took the absolute living piss out of him.

I set my cards down.

"Xavier."

Gina's voice came from the couch, and I looked up to find her standing. She'd been sitting with the other women, a glass of wine in her hand, her auburn hair escaping its messy bun. Now she was on her feet, and her green eyes were fixed on me with a look I couldn't read.

"Yeah?"

She didn't answer. She walked over to the table, her hips moving in that deliberate way she had, and she set her glass down next to Ellie's. The two glasses stood side by side, identical, and Gina put her hand flat on the table and leaned forward.

"I'm pregnant too."

Derek's face went pale.

I watched it happen — watched the color drain out of his cheeks like someone had pulled a plug, watched his hand go still around his cards, watched his jaw tighten until I could see the muscle jump. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at Gina, and the silence stretched out long enough that I could hear the lamp buzzing.

"Gina." His voice was hoarse. "That's —"

"Eight weeks," she said. "Same as Ellie."

She wasn't looking at Derek. She was looking at me.

My mouth was dry. I reached for my glass and took a sip of whiskey that burned going down, and I kept my face as still as I could while the room rearranged itself around me.

Hal had stopped grinning. He was watching Derek now, his head tilted, and there was something careful in his eyes — something that said he was doing the same math I'd just done.

"Well," Marcus said, from his corner. He took a long drag of his cigar and let the smoke curl out of his mouth. "That's a hell of a coincidence."

"Isn't it." Gina's voice was flat. She straightened up, and her hand drifted to her stomach, resting there like she was already used to the weight of it. "Eight weeks. All of us."

All of us.

I looked at the couch. Rachel was sitting forward now, her ponytail swinging as she turned to look at me, and her face was flushed — a high, bright color that spread from her cheeks down her neck. She was biting her lip the way she did when she was nervous, and I saw her hand find the edge of the cushion and grip it.

She stood up.

Tommy's hand froze in the air again. He was reaching for a chip, the same motion he'd been caught in before, and his eyes were wide behind his glasses, fixed on Rachel with a look of pure, blank shock.

"Rachel," he said. It was barely a word. "What are you—"

"I'm pregnant," she said. Her voice was small but steady, and she didn't look at Tommy. She looked at me. "I found out this morning. I was going to tell you tonight, but I guess —" She gestured at the room, at Ellie, at Gina. "I guess it's a good night for it."

Tommy's hand came down. It landed on the chip stack and knocked it over, and the chips scattered across the table in a clatter that sounded deafening in the quiet. He didn't pick them up. He just stared at Rachel, and I watched his throat work as he swallowed.

"Eight weeks?" he said.

"Yes."

"That's — that's not possible." His voice cracked. "We haven't — I mean, we haven't —" He stopped, and I saw the realization hit him like a physical blow. His eyes moved to me.

I didn't look away. I couldn't. His gaze was a weight, and I held it, and I watched his face crumple into something I couldn't name.

"Xavier," he said. It wasn't a question.

I didn't answer.

The room was a minefield. I could feel every eye on me, the weight of them, the heat of them, and the whiskey in my glass was suddenly the only thing keeping me anchored. I took another sip. Then another.

"Well," Hal said, and his voice was too bright, too loud, filling the space like he was trying to hold the walls up. "This is — this is quite a night. Quite a goddamn night."

Derek was still staring at Gina. His cards had fallen from his hand, face-down on the table, and he hadn't moved to pick them up. "Eight weeks," he said, and his voice was empty. "That's the night of the game."

"Yes," Gina said. "It is."

"You —" He stopped. Swallowed. "You told me it was a bet. You told me it was a game."

"It was." She met his eyes, and her chin came up. "And I won."

Derek's jaw clenched. I saw his hands curl into fists on the table, and for a moment I thought he was going to stand up, going to cross the table, going to do something that would end this night in a way none of us could walk back from.

He didn't. He just sat there, his knuckles white, his eyes fixed on his wife, and the silence stretched out until I could hear my own heartbeat.

Rachel moved first.

She walked around the table, and her steps were quiet, almost careful, like she was walking through a room full of sleeping animals. She came to my chair and stopped, and I looked up at her — at the freckles across her nose, at the flush on her cheeks, at the way her hands were clasped in front of her like she was holding something fragile.

"Xavier," she said, and her voice was soft. "I know this is — I know this is a lot. But I wanted you to know. I wanted you to hear it from me."

I didn't know what to say. I'd had a dozen lines for every situation, a joke for every silence, a grin for every weight. But this was different. This was a weight I couldn't joke away.

"I'm sorry," I said. It came out rough, and I cleared my throat. "I don't — I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything." She put her hand on my shoulder, and the touch was light, almost tentative. "I just wanted you to know."

Gina moved next. She came around the other side of the table, and she didn't stop at my chair — she leaned against the edge of the table, her hip pressing against the wood, and she looked down at me with those sharp green eyes.

"You're the father," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Gina—"

"Don't." Her voice was flat. "Don't lie to me. I know what happened that night. I know what you did. I know what I did." She put her hand on her stomach. "And I know this is yours."

The room was silent. I could feel the weight of it, the pressure of all those eyes — Derek's white-knuckled fists, Tommy's shattered face, Hal's careful grin, Marcus's steady gaze through a curtain of cigar smoke.

And then Kara stood up.

She hadn't moved until now. She'd been sitting at the end of the couch, her dark bob falling forward, her hands folded in her lap, watching the scene unfold with those large, expressive brown eyes that gave away everything she felt. Now she rose, slow and deliberate, and she smoothed her blouse before she spoke.

"I'm pregnant too."

Ethan's jaw clenched.

I saw it — the hard line of his jaw, the muscle jumping in his cheek, the way his hands gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles went white. He didn't speak. He didn't move. He just stared at Kara, and the look on his face was something I'd never seen before — something raw and broken and furious all at once.

"Eight weeks," Kara said. She met his gaze, and her voice was steady. "I found out yesterday. I was going to tell you, but —" She looked at me. "I guess the timing never felt right."

Ethan's chair scraped back.

He stood up, and he was big — stocky and powerful, a wrestler's body that filled the space, and for a moment I thought he was going to cross the room and come for me. His hands were fists at his sides, and his face was a mask of barely controlled rage, and I saw the other men tense — saw Hal half-rise from his chair, saw Derek's hand go flat on the table.

Ethan didn't move toward me. He stood there, breathing hard, and he looked at Kara — really looked at her, like he was seeing her for the first time.

"You sent him the photo," I heard myself say. It came out before I could stop it. "You sent him—"

"I know what I sent." Kara's voice was quiet. "I know what I did. I knew what I was doing when I did it." She looked at Ethan, and her eyes were bright. "I'm not sorry."

The words hung in the air. Ethan's jaw worked, and I saw his hands uncurl, then curl again, and the silence was so thick I could taste it.

"Well," Hal said, and his voice was too loud again, too bright. "I think we all need a drink."

He moved to the sideboard, and the clink of bottles was the only sound in the room. I watched his broad back, watched his shoulders move as he poured, and I felt the weight of it all pressing down on me — the four women, the four pregnancies, the four husbands whose worlds had just collapsed into a single, shared truth.

Gina's hand found my shoulder. Rachel's hand was still there, warm and light. Kara was walking toward me now, her steps unhurried, and I could feel the room narrowing, all those eyes swinging to me as the only man who could have done this to all of them.

The only man who had.

Kara stopped at the edge of the table. She looked down at me, and there was something in her eyes — something hungry and satisfied and terribly, terribly calm.

"You did this," she said. "All of us. Eight weeks ago."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I just sat there, my cards forgotten in my hand, and watched the four of them close in around me — Ellie still at the table, Gina at my shoulder, Rachel at my other side, Kara at the edge of the table — and the room was silent except for the sound of Hal pouring whiskey and the low, steady buzz of the lamp.

Every husband's head had turned to me.

Derek pale and still. Tommy shattered and frozen. Ethan clenched and furious. Hal with his grin and his bottle, watching me with those warm brown eyes that knew exactly what he was looking at.

And I grinned.

I couldn't help it. It was the wrong thing, the mad thing, the thing that would make all of this worse — but it was the only thing I had. I spread my cards on the table, the useless hand, the three hearts and the seven of spades and the two of diamonds, and I let the grin find my face.

"Well," I said, and my voice was rough but steady. "I guess I finally won a hand."