THE NEXT DAY CR COMPANY
The universe, in a moment of rare mercy, had decided to grant CR Company one singular, blissful day where everything actually functioned like it was supposed to.
No fires to put out.
No deadlines whooshing by like caffeinated commuter trains.
No catastrophic software bugs that made interns cry in the bathroom.
Just good old-fashioned monotony, the kind that made you seriously question your career choices and wonder if joining a cult might've been a better use of your talents.
Everyone was knee-deep in launching the product: tweaking, poking, polishing. Weekly meetings blurred into daily stand-ups, where Danica and Alfred sat like a less-charming version of Statler and Waldorf from the Muppets, critiquing every update with the enthusiasm of two people who hadn't slept in three months.
Shockingly, things were—dare she even think it?—running smoothly.
Satisfactorily.
Peacefully.
Disgustingly so.
Half the day passed with the kind of soul-sucking slowness that made Danica wonder if time itself was having a midlife crisis.
It was sometime after lunch (or what passed for lunch—half a protein bar and a questionable cup of office coffee) when Danica, desperate for a change of scenery, took a slow, meandering walk back to her office. She was halfway down the corridor when she caught sight of him—Alfred—standing alone by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the fading light.
Without thinking, she slowed, her steps quiet as she approached him. Her hands clasped behind her back in a rare display of nerves.
"Sorry," she said softly, her voice barely louder than the hum of the city beyond the glass.
Alfred blinked, the spell of whatever thoughts had held him captive breaking as he turned his head slightly. The moment he saw her, something shifted in his expression—something soft, something almost reverent.
A smile tugged at his mouth. "What are you sorry for?"
Still facing the view, she inhaled deeply. "Yesterday," she started, voice measured but carrying an undercurrent of guilt, "I kissed you without asking. You weren't prepared." Her fingers tightened against each other behind her back. "And then I dragged you into this whole charade, without even considering whether you wanted to be a part of it."
Alfred's heart twisted, but outwardly, he stayed calm, stayed still. If only you knew, I'd never need permission when it comes to you.
But it wasn't the right time. Not yet.
"It's alright," he said, his voice low and sure, laced with something she couldn't name. He turned his head enough to catch a glimpse of her profile—the stubborn set of her jaw, the way she refused to meet his gaze.
Danica kept her eyes trained on the skyline. Her chest ached with the effort it took not to smile at him.
God, why does his smile have to be so damn contagious?
But pride was a familiar shield, and she wasn't ready to lower it. Not yet.
"Count yourself lucky, Alfred," she said instead, her tone dipping into something cool and teasing. "You got to kiss me. Men usually don't even get close enough before I show them the door." She paused, a sly smirk threatening. "And I apologized to you. I don't apologize to anyone. Ever."
Alfred chuckled under his breath, a deep, rumbling sound that sent a thrill down her spine.
Luckiest man alive. He reflected with smug satisfaction.
"So," he drawled, eyes gleaming with a challenge, "you're saying I'm special?"
Danica finally turned to him, just a flicker of movement, just enough for him to catch the flicker of amusement in her gaze before she looked away again like she hadn't just set his world on fire.
"Think whatever make you sleep tight at night," she said, voice careless, but her quickened breathing betrayed her.
Alfred's smile deepened, slow and knowing. And this time, he didn't bother hiding it.
"What are you doing out here all alone?" Danica asked, her voice a soft lilt that barely cut through the heavy evening air.
Alfred tilted his head, the corners of his mouth lifting into a faint, almost secretive smile. His posture was lazy, but there was a tension to him too—something unreadable in the way his fingers flexed at his sides.
"Thinking," he said simply.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, trying not to focus on the way the fading sunlight caught in his eyes. "Thinking about what?" she pressed, curious despite herself.
"A child," he answered, the smile deepening as if he were savoring some private joke.
Danica blinked, the words hitting her like a bucket of cold water. She stiffened instinctively, taking a small but unmistakable step back, her mind spiraling.
A child?
What the hell was he saying?
She had agreed to let him pretend to be her boyfriend—not sign up for some impulsive fantasy about kids and forever. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs, her thoughts racing.
Before she could open her mouth and say something—anything—Alfred spoke again, his tone more thoughtful now. "Yesterday, when I was heading home... I got a little lost in my thoughts."
Her gaze sharpened. "Whose thoughts?" the words spilled out even before her brain could process them. Damn it.
In his mind, the answer was immediate. Yours.
But all he gave her was a maddening, secretive look. "You don't need to know," he murmured.
Something inside her crumpled, just a little.
Danica swallowed against the sudden lump forming in her throat, trying to mask the jealousy simmering under her skin. Was there someone else? The thought pierced her harder than she liked to admit.
She schooled her features into a careful mask, but the way Alfred's lips quirked told her she hadn't fooled him. Not even close. His eyes gleamed with a knowing that made her cheeks burn.
And he liked it. He liked that she cared.
"I was so distracted," he continued, voice dropping lower, almost conspiratorial, "that I didn't even notice when I almost hit a child crossing the street."
The tension in Danica's shoulders eased, replaced by a different kind of ache. A pang of guilt. Concern.
"A homeless child," he clarified, reading her face like an open book.
"And then?" she asked, voice gentler now, coaxing.
Alfred shrugged, the movement casual but there was an undeniable warmth in his eyes. "I brought him with me. Bought him some sandwiches... Sat with him until he stopped looking at me like I was going to hurt him." His jaw tightened briefly, something unspoken passing through his expression. "Then I found a nearby orphanage and made sure they would take him in."
For a moment, all Danica could do was look at him, the noise of the city blurring into a distant hum around them.
He's... a good man.
The realization settled into her chest, heavy and warm all at once.
And somehow, despite everything—despite the chaos, the doubts—she knew she was already slipping deeper into something she hadn't meant to feel at all.
Meanwhile, Mr. Lee—Paul's loyal, if not somewhat dramatically prone, friend—was sauntering past the break room when a snippet of conversation (between Alfred and Danica) floated to his ears. Correction: he misheard the conversation in the most spectacularly catastrophic way possible.
And those misunderstood words were: Keep the child.
Mr. Lee froze mid-step, a soda can halfway to his mouth. His brain practically short-circuited.
Keep the child.
KEEP. THE. CHILD.
His eyeballs nearly popped out of his head cartoon-style. What the actual hell? His internal voice was screaming. Danica—Boss Lady herself—is knocked up with Alfred's child?!
It took a total of 0.2 seconds for Mr. Lee's fight-or-flight instincts to kick in. He chose the third, lesser-known option: gossip or die.
He bolted, practically tripping over his own feet as he barrelled down the stairs toward the office area, heart hammering like he was fleeing a crime scene.
I have to tell Paul. I have to be the harbinger of heartbreak. The bringer of doom. RIP to his feelings. RIP to his romantic hopes. RIP to his dignity—which, honestly, was on life support already, he thought grimly, mumbling a heartfelt eulogy under his breath.
Meanwhile, Paul, sweet summer child that he was, sat at his desk blissfully unaware, cocooned in noise-canceling headphones, bobbing his head slightly to a piece of music that was way too emotional for a Tuesday morning.
The volume? Full blast. Because why listen to intrusive thoughts when you could drown them in indie rock?
By the time Paul's friend skidded to a stop in front of him, gasping like he'd just run a marathon he hadn't trained for, he looked one exhale away from cardiac arrest.
Paul raised an eyebrow, nonchalant. He didn't even bother taking off his headphones. Because experience had taught him that 87% of what this friend said was nonsense, 10% was made-up nonsense, and 3% was genuinely worrying.
"Bro," Mr. Lee panted. "Take your feelings, your little rainbow of hope, and toss it into a dumpster. Light it on fire and watch it burn."
Paul gave a vague nod, the universal 'Cool story, bro' gesture, continued listening to rock music (with still headphones on) and turned back to his computer screen.
"Danica is pregnant!" Mr. Lee bellowed, this time making sure the words were clear enough to land a plane.
Through the distorted soup of headphone music, Paul misheard: Nina is pregnant.
His heart did a somersault and landed face-first.
He yanked off his headphones like they were molten lava. "Where did you hear that?" His voice cracked somewhere between rage and disbelief.
"I saw her talking to—"
"What the ACTUAL fuck," Paul exploded, cutting Mr. Lee off, standing so fast his chair almost launched backward.
Without waiting for clarification or oxygen, Paul stormed out like a man on a mission, murder in his eyes.
"AYE, PAUL—" Mr. Lee shrieked after him, waving his arms around like a malfunctioning windmill. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath, hands on hips like a disappointed soccer mom. He shook his head.
"Gosh. What a colossal weirdo," he muttered darkly to himself.
It was then—only then—that the horror struck him. The office buzzed now. Heads poked over cubicles like gophers. Mr. Lee froze, the horrible realization dawning.
Oh no. Oh, God. I said it so loud the entire office just found out.
Somewhere in the back, Sean—a poor soul who had already been emotionally waterboarded by Danica's mere existence—slumped against the wall. His life flashed before his eyes.
What am I even doing here? Sean thought, his mind rapidly spiraling into existential dread. First, working under my ex. Second, witnessing that soul-destroying kiss. And now this? Pregnancy? Really, universe? Why don't you just throw in a zombie apocalypse while you're at it?
IN THE DANICA'S OFFICE
Danica slumped deeper into the ergonomic disaster of a chair in her office—er, cabin—staring down at her laptop like it had personally wronged her. Which, honestly, it had. No sane machine should take fifteen minutes to load a spreadsheet.
Just as she was about to lose the battle with the swirling vortex of existential dread (and two outstanding coffee orders), a loud—KNOCK! KNOCK!—snapped her spine ramrod straight.
"Yes, come in!" she called, with the strained cheerfulness of someone who knew they were about to regret it.
The door creaked open to reveal Carla, one of her employees, clutching a file like it might explode if she dared loosen her grip. Which, given Danica's mood lately, wasn't entirely off-base.
"Boss, here's the progress report," Carla said, her voice as tiny as a mouse's squeak at a lion convention.
Danica took the file with all the grace of a queen receiving a peasant's tax offering. She flipped it open, skimmed the numbers—and immediately wished she hadn't.
Her blood pressure rose so fast she was pretty sure it achieved lift-off.
"Why," she said, voice rising to a volume best suited for emergency broadcasts, "is our progress lower than my will to live after Monday meetings?"
Carla flinched, visibly wilting no less than a houseplant in direct sunlight. "We're working hard, Boss," she mumbled, her eyes darting to the floor like it might save her.
Danica snorted so hard she almost impressed herself. "Hard work? HARD WORK?" she repeated, scoffing loud enough to scare a pigeon off a windowsill two floors down. She hurled the file onto the floor with a melodramatic flourish. "Your 'hard work' should be reflected in the numbers. And guess what? I must've left my magic magnifying glass at home, because I'm just not seeing it."
Carla opened her mouth, probably to come up with a defense, but Danica steamrolled on.
"I don't care if you have to sleep here! Glue yourselves to the desks if you have to. I want that progress report sparkling so bright I need sunglasses to read it."
"Okay, Boss," Carla whispered, attempting a nod and failing miserably.
"LEAVE," Danica barked, one eyebrow arched so high it was probably orbiting the earth.
Carla hesitated, chewing on her lip like she was debating whether getting fired was preferable to what she was about to say. Spoiler alert: it wasn't.
"Boss, if I may..." Carla began, voice coated with dangerous politeness.
Danica sighed, dramatically enough to qualify for a community theatre production. "Spit it out before I die of anticipation."
"You, uh, shouldn't be so angry, considering...you know...," Carla said, casting a meaningful look at Danica's abdomen. "It's not good for the child. Staying happy keeps the baby happy too!"
She flashed a quick, sugary smile—the kind usually reserved for dealing with unpredictable zoo animals—and scurried out before Danica could process a single syllable.
Danica blinked. Child? Critical condition?
What the actual hell was she trying to imply? Was there a baby hidden under my stress belly? Was I being punked? Was this a new HR policy?
She stared down at herself, half-expecting a maternity badge to appear out of thin air.
OUTSIDE NINA'S HOME
Paul stood outside Nina's door, heart pounding like a drum he couldn't silence.
Could it really be?
No...impossible.
He raked a trembling hand through his hair. I was careful. I made sure. But the seed of doubt had been planted, and it grew wild inside him, reckless and fast.
The door swung open, and there she was, Nina—glowing, chaotic, gorgeous Nina, wearing a baggy sweatshirt and the confused expression of someone who definitely didn't know she might be starring in the sequel of Paul's Accidental Fatherhood.
Without thinking, Paul pulled her into his arms, clutching her like she might disappear. To his surprise, Nina hugged him back — hesitant at first, then firmer.
Is he dying? she wondered, narrowing her eyes. Or worse—caught feelings?
Paul buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in, anchoring himself. Maybe this is it, he thought. Maybe this is my fate. Becoming a father…with a woman I didn't plan a future with. Damn. I never thought my life would take a turn like this.
She pulled back slightly and led him inside, concern flickering across her face.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, voice cautious, eyes wary.
"You should be resting. Y'know... in your condition," he said, like he was announcing a royal pregnancy on the palace steps. He reached out and patted—yes, patted—her flat belly.
Nina jerked away his hand, a startled frown flashing across her face. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Paul froze, thrown off by her reaction. Is she planning to keep the baby from me? His chest tightened. No. No way. I won't let her shut me out. Not after everything.
Without thinking, he cupped her face between his palms and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead — a silent apology, a plea.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice hoarse. "Sorry for how I was...yesterday." He hesitated, thumb tracing her cheek. "Please don't...keep me away from this." His gaze flicked down to her belly again, heavy with meaning.
Nina blinked, utterly lost.
"This?" she thought, baffled. What is he even talking about? What the hell was this supposed to mean? Had she missed a group memo? Was this some TikTok trend?
She grabbed his wrists and pushed him away, creating distance between them. "Hold up." Her voice hardened. "What the hell is going on?"
Paul inhaled sharply, chest rising and falling under the weight of what he needed to say.
Come on, man. Just say it. It's not that hard. "My child." Two words. You can do it.
"I'm sorry," he blurted. "I got you pregnant."
Silence slammed into the room like a freight train.
"I don't want you to keep me away from my child," he added quickly, desperate to fill the heavy void between them.
Nina stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "What?" Her voice cracked. "I'm... I'm pregnant?"
Shock painted her features, raw and disbelieving.
MEANWHILE, AT THE CR COMPANY
CONFERENCE ROOM
Danica tapped her fingers against the polished mahogany table like a woman on the verge of committing several HR violations. Her gaze flicked to the clock, then back to the door, then to the clock again, as if sheer fury could make time bend to her will.
"Where is this absolute imbecile, Paul?" she hissed under her breath, just loud enough for the entire conference room to pick up on her very specific, very justified brand of rage.
The conference was supposed to start ten minutes ago.
Correction: The conference was supposed to start one hour and ten minutes ago.
"This conference is about to almost end," she muttered, because apparently stating the obvious was all she had left before spontaneous combustion.
As if summoned by the dark gods of bad timing, Alfred strolled in, wearing the smug, unbothered face of a man who had never been yelled at by a hormonal woman before. He plopped down next to her with the energy of a particularly lazy golden retriever.
Danica's blood pressure skyrocketed. She stared at the glass of water sitting innocently beside her, thought about it for exactly 0.3 seconds, and then—without so much as blinking—snatched it up and hurled it at the floor. The satisfying CRASH echoed through the room like a war drum.
"It's been TWO HOURS. TWO!" she shrieked, hands flailing for emphasis. "Where is this jerk—this—this half-witted, commitment-phobic, oxygen-wasting excuse for a human—Paul?!"
A brave—or possibly suicidal—female employee edged closer. "Uh, I think... I think I saw Paul leave the building. Like, um... two hours ago?"
Danica's eye twitched. Someone somewhere gasped.
Another, far less brave employee, who clearly moonlighted as a wellness coach, piped up: "You should really watch your stress levels. It's not good for the baby."
There was a beat of stunned silence. And then, like a synchronized Olympic team, three other employees nodded solemnly, as if they had just graduated from the University of Unsolicited Advice.
Meanwhile, Paul's friend, Mr. Lee—whose loyalty, it turned out, was thinner than office paper—ducked his head and attempted to disappear into his chair. Spoiler alert: it didn't work. Everyone could still see him.
Danica shot up from her chair so fast it nearly toppled backward. "What the actual hell is happening right now?" she barked, eyes scanning the room. "Is this a conference meeting or an episode of Housewives of Corporate America? Someone start talking before I start flipping tables."
She was past anger now. She was somewhere in the stratosphere of rage, where only dolphins and God could hear you scream.
Under the table, Alfred grabbed her hand in a desperate, sweaty attempt to telepathically transmit please, for the love of God, don't murder anyone.
Danica exhaled sharply through her nose. The room fell into an awkward, suffocating silence.
"Well, congratulations, everyone," she said, voice dripping in so much sarcasm she could've bottled and sold it. "Meeting's over."
Without another word, she gathered her things—basically her dignity and whatever was left of her patience—and marched toward the door.
But just as she was about to make her grand, dramatic exit, she paused. She pivoted slowly—too slowly—to lock eyes with Paul's friend, who was busy examining the floor tiles like they contained the meaning of life.
"You," she snapped.
The poor guy flinched like she'd just thrown another glass.
"Y-Yes, Boss?" Mr. Lee squeaked, looking up with the expression of a man facing a very angry, very pregnant firing squad.
Danica tilted her head with the kind of calm that preceded many a homicide. "Send Paul to my office the moment he slithers back in. And bring yourself too. We'll be having a little... chat."
With that, she spun on her heel and stormed out, leaving a room full of stunned employees, a puddle of broken glass, and the unmistakable scent of impending doom.
MEANWHILE, AT NINA'S PLACE
"Who exactly blessed you with that brain-melting piece of news?" she asked Paul, her voice the perfect cocktail of suspicion and mockery.
"My friend told me—" Paul began, already looking like he regretted admitting it.
She threw her hands up so dramatically you'd think she was auditioning for a soap opera. "Oh, for the love of carbs! He was obviously joking. I am not, repeat, not pregnant, okay? My uterus is as empty as my fridge on payday."
Paul's eyes widened to the size of small planets. "What!" he yelped, like she'd just told him she was an alien.
"Please, say that again. I need it for my soul," he said, grinning so widely she could practically see his molars.
Rolling her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't detach, she snapped, "I AM NOT PREGNANT!" She even gave him jazz hands for emphasis.
Paul let out a sigh so relieved it could have powered a wind farm. He wasn't going to be someone's dad. No late-night feedings, no diaper explosions, no suspicious smells coming from tiny humans.
"Thank the gods of freedom," he mumbled under his breath, doing a little two-step dance of joy in his head.
But then a cloud passed over his forehead. "Then why the hell would he say that you're pregnant?" he muttered, sounding genuinely confused, which, let's face it, wasn't that rare for Paul.
She sighed the long, suffering sigh of a woman who had clearly dealt with too much male stupidity for one lifetime. "Maybe because he has the comedic instincts of a potato," she said, shrugging.
Paul clenched his jaw so tight it was a miracle he didn't shatter his teeth. "Aish... this guy," he growled, shaking his head. "How can he joke about something like that? That's not funny. That's cancel-worthy humor. I'm gonna teach him a lesson he'll remember next time he thinks 'Ha ha, pregnancy scare' is top-tier comedy."
Before she could stop him—or even offer him a cookie for the road—Paul stormed out of her apartment, already plotting a lecture so vicious it would make Shakespearean insults look like nursery rhymes.
AT THE CR COMPANY
Paul stormed into CR Company no less than a caffeinated rhino on a vendetta. His sneakers squeaked against the polished floors, announcing his fury with every furious step. Somewhere deep inside, he knew he was being dramatic, but what was the point of being angry if no one noticed?
As he approached the office area, the entire room turned into a freeze frame. Every single person had stopped what they were doing to give him The Stare. You know the one — the kind reserved for strikers at football games and politicians caught lying.
Why is everyone looking at me like I just announced I'm running for president... naked? Paul thought, panic hitching a ride on his already-raging temper. His mouth dried up instantly, but that didn't stop him from pulling a weird, twitchy smile.
"Eh... Hello, I'm Paul," he addressed, voice cracking like a teenage boy at a One Direction concert.
Brilliant. They know you're Paul, genius. What's next? Gonna introduce yourself to your own reflection? Get a grip! he mentally berated himself, cursing every molecule of his stupid, sweaty nervousness.
"Uh, can someone tell me where my dear friend, Mr. Lee, might be hiding?" he added, layering on the world's fakest smile, the kind that deserved its own Oscar category: Best Performance by a Man About to Embarrass Himself.
A man taller than Paul — and quite possibly taller than every building in the city — emerged from the crowd. His shadow fell over Paul like a death omen with a bad haircut.
Paul froze.
Oh, cool. This is it. This is how I die. Death by Beige Office Lighting.
The giant placed both hands on Paul's shoulders with the ceremonial gravitas of a priest about to deliver last rites. His face was so serious Paul half expected a choir to start singing in the background.
"RIP," the man said solemnly, with the dramatic flair of someone who'd clearly practiced in a mirror.
Paul blinked. "Eh... what?" he croaked, half wondering if he should start writing a will on a Post-it note.
A different employee, a woman with the kind of sarcasm that practically dripped from her smirk, called out lazily, "Your friend's in Danica's office. Good luck, buddy. Hope you've made peace with your sins."
Paul didn't wait to hear what kind of sins she meant. He took off like a man who had accidentally sent a sext to the office group chat — desperate, sweaty, and fully prepared to jump out a window if necessary.
He skidded up to Danica's door and, fueled by equal parts terror and pure dumb energy, shoved it open without knocking.
Because hey — when you're already halfway to ruining your life, why not sprint the rest of the way?