What We Didn’t Plan - Short Story

When One Night Changes Everything…

Some stories start with love.

This one starts with a mistake.

Or maybe it was fate. Maybe it was heartbreak.

Maybe it was both.

What We Didn’t Plan is an emotional, slow-burn short story about Tessa and Dean—two former best friends whose paths collided one night… and changed the rest of their lives. Three months later, she’s back in town with a secret. He’s not ready. But he’s not walking away, either.

This one’s for the readers who love:

💔 Second chances

👶 Surprise pregnancy

🌲 Small-town heartbreak

🐭 A quiet nickname that’ll hit you right in the chest

❤️ And an ending that’s soft, aching, and just a little bit hopeful

There is no spice in this one but it’s raw. It’s messy. It’s broken and they choose each other anyway.

What We Didn’t Plan

The knock comes just after seven. I’m still in pajama pants and a sleep shirt that smells faintly of the laundry detergent my aunt has always used. The kind that clings like memory. I freeze mid-step, halfway between the kettle and the cabinet. No one knocks this early unless it’s bad news or someone who doesn’t care if they catch you with sleep lines on your face and no bra on.

I open the door and promptly forget how to breathe.

Dean Carter stands on the porch like a ghost from a life I barely survived.

And he’s holding my damn coffee mug.

The green one with the chip on the rim. The one I left in his truck three months ago, on the night I swore I’d never see him again.

“Morning,” he says, voice low and scratchy. “This yours?”

I nod, unable to find my voice. My heart is a jackhammer behind my ribs.

Dean looks exactly the same and nothing like I remember. Hair is longer. Beard is scruffier. Shoulders are tense beneath the flannel he probably threw on without a second thought. I, on the other hand, am painfully aware of every inch of myself. Of how I look, of how I feel, of how hard I’m trying not to throw up from nerves and hormones.

“I figured if you were back in town, you might want this.” He lifts the mug slightly, like proof of something I didn’t ask him to bring.

“Thanks.” I take it from him quickly, like it’s radioactive. “You didn’t have to—”

“You left without a word.”

There it is. No small talk. No easing into it. Just straight to the cut.

I grip the chipped mug tighter. “I know.”

Dean steps back half a pace, arms crossing, brow furrowing in that quiet, restrained way that always used to drive me nuts. Not angry. Not expressive. Just held in, like he’s trying to be careful with me and failing miserably.

“So why now?” he asks. “Why come back?”

“I’m helping my aunt.” I motion vaguely over my shoulder, though she’s still asleep. “She fell last week. Sprained her hip. I’m just here to help her get around.”

He nods like he half-believes me. “How long are you staying?”

“A few weeks. Maybe less.”

“Right.” His jaw flexes, like he wants to say something else but doesn’t.

I want to slam the door and scream at the same time.

There’s a weight between us that wasn’t there the last time we saw each other, even when I left with mascara streaks and my heart cracked down the middle. This is different. He knows I’m hiding something. I know I can’t tell him yet.

It’s too soon.

I’m not ready.

“You look… tired,” he says finally.

I let out a humorless laugh. “Gee, thanks.”

He winces. “Didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” I pause, then add, softer, “It’s just been a long week.”

Dean studies me, gaze trailing from my face to the sweatshirt hanging loose over my frame. I instinctively tug it down. Too early to show. But I swear to God I can feel the change already, like it’s written all over me.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat, “you’ve got your mug now.”

“Guess I do.”

He doesn’t move.

I don’t ask him to stay.

He nods once, then turns back toward his truck.

“Dean?” He glances over his shoulder.

I almost say something. Almost confessing it all, three months of silence, one night that left me reeling, and the plus sign that changed everything.

Instead, I just say, “Thanks for bringing it back.”

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says, eyes unreadable.

“Didn’t plan to come back,” I mutter, voice barely audible. And I definitely didn’t plan on being pregnant.

Dean’s eyes flicker, like he wants to say something else, like he almost gets it.

Instead, he nods once and turns away, heading down the steps without another word.

But just as he reaches his truck, he glances back over his shoulder and says, “You look like you’re carrying something heavy, Tess. Hope it’s not something you’re planning to carry alone.”

Then he’s gone.

It’s hours later, and I still can’t shake the sound of his voice.

I stir honey into my tea with a shaking hand, forcing slow breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth. Ginger. Lemon. The holy grail of ‘don’t throw up before breakfast’ remedies, according to the internet.

It’s not working.

The nausea comes in waves, sharp, rising heat in my chest, the kind that makes my palms sweat and my throat tighten. I haven’t eaten anything yet, which might be the problem, but the thought of food makes my stomach lurch.

My aunt shuffles in behind me, wincing with every step, one hand white-knuckled around the cane she swears she doesn’t need. Her injured hip slows her down, but she’s stubborn enough to pretend it doesn’t.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, not looking at her. “You know you should be resting right?”

She just raises an eyebrow at me that says ‘don’t tell me what to do’. 

So I don't push. She then fills her own mug and sits at the table like it’s any other morning. It’s not. It hasn’t been since I peed on a stick in a gas station bathroom off Route 37 and had to sit there for twenty minutes trying not to cry.

Now I’m back in the house I spent every summer in as a kid, pretending I’m just here to help out. Like I’m not hiding something that’ll change both of our lives.

“Your face is pale,” she says, squinting at me over her coffee. “You feeling okay?”

I nod too quickly. “Just adjusting. Long drive, weird sleep.”

“Mhmm.”

Her knowing tone scrapes against my nerves, but I smile like I’m fine. Like I’m not falling apart from the inside out.

She doesn’t ask more, and I don’t offer.

When she leaves the kitchen, I finally let myself exhale and drop into the chair across from hers. The nausea is settling now, but my chest still feels tight. Like I’m holding something I can’t carry much longer.

I wasn’t supposed to stay the night. I wasn’t supposed to let him touch me like he owned my heart.

And I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to end up pregnant.

It happened after a wedding. Our mutual friends. Too much wine, too much nostalgia, and too many old hurts lurking under skin that still remembered how to want. We didn’t mean for it to happen. At least, I didn’t.

But the way he looked at me in that hotel room, like nothing had changed, like everything had, I knew I wouldn’t say no.

He kissed me like a memory and held me like a promise. And in the morning, I was gone before the sun came up.

Cowardly? Absolutely.

But staying would’ve broken something I wasn’t ready to name. And now…

Now I’m pregnant.

Twelve weeks. Give or take. About a hundred and eighty days until everything changes for good. That’s how I’ve been measuring time lately, in the slow tick of countdowns and all the ways I’m running out of space to lie to myself.

The plan is simple: stay a few weeks, help my aunt, figure out my options, and leave before anyone gets too close. Especially Dean.

He can’t know. Not yet.

Not when I don’t even know what I’m doing.

But the secret is already pressing at my ribs, heavier every day. I won’t be able to look at him without feeling it. Or hear his voice without remembering the way it sounded against my skin. Every time I close my eyes, I see that look on his face, right before he touched me like he didn’t regret a thing.

The worst part is… neither do I.

And that might be the most dangerous secret of all.

It’s late afternoon when I drag myself into town, telling myself I just need a few things.

Really, I need a minute to breathe. However, the fluorescent lights in the pharmacy feel like a personal attack.

I grip the counter with both hands, nodding mutely as the clerk rings me up. Prenatal vitamins. Ginger chews. A box of saltines I’m praying will trick my stomach into behaving. I try to smile. It probably looks more like a grimace.

She places the bag gently on the counter like I might break if she moves too fast. She’s not wrong.

I mumble a thank-you and push through the automatic doors into the muggy afternoon air.

The second I’m outside, the world tilts.

It’s not dramatic, just a sharp wave of dizziness, like my body’s reminding me that growing a human means I’m not allowed to skip breakfast anymore. I grab the railing by the steps and bend slightly, breathing slow through my nose.

“Tessa?”

The sound of my name scrapes across my skin. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.

Dean’s voice is lower than usual, cautious. I hear the slow, deliberate sound of his boots on the pavement behind me.

“I’m fine,” I say, still not looking at him.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re pale. You were leaning on the railing like you were about to pass out.”

I straighten and turn, heart pounding. “Why are you even here?”

He raises an eyebrow. “It’s a small town. I was picking up epoxy from the hardware store. You looked like you were about to fall over.”

I hug the pharmacy bag tighter to my chest and take a step back. “Well, I didn’t.”

He looks me over slowly, carefully. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Mouse—”

“Don’t call me that.”

He flinches. Just slightly. But I see it.

“You’re acting weird,” he says. “You show up out of nowhere after three months of nothing, you look like you haven’t slept, and now you’re coming out of the pharmacy looking ready to pass out. What the hell am I supposed to think?”

“Think whatever you want.”

He steps in front of me, blocking my path. “I’m trying to understand. But you’re making it real hard.”

I stare at him. His jaw. His hands. The shape of his mouth, all familiar and infuriating.

“You want to know what’s going on?” My voice cracks around the edges. “I’m pregnant.” My hand immediately goes to my mouth, like I can’t believe I just blurted it out.

The words hang between us, sharp and sudden.

Dean’s eyes go wide. He says nothing.

I take a breath, then add quietly, “It’s yours.”

His whole body goes still.

For one long second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Just stands there, jaw clenched, breath held like he’s trying to make the moment disappear.

“You don’t get to disappear and then drop this on me,” he finally says, voice tight and low.

“I didn’t know how else to tell you!” I say frustrated, more with myself than him.

We’re too close. Too loud. The air feels charged, like one wrong word will shatter everything.

“So what now?” he asks, hands spread like he’s asking the universe to answer.

I swallow hard, my throat thick. “Now? Now you know. And it doesn’t change a damn thing.”

Silence.

Dean doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask anything else.

Instead, he steps back.

And walks away.

Just like that.

My feet don’t move. I don’t call after him. I just stand there, trembling in the sun, one hand pressed to my stomach like instinct.

The moment I finally let the truth out, he leaves me with it. Just like I was worried he would.

Three days pass without a word.

No texts. No knock at the door. No sign that he ever plans to speak to me again.

I tell myself I expected this. That I shouldn’t be surprised. That this is exactly why I didn’t tell him in the first place.

But that doesn’t stop the ache.

Every sound outside makes me look toward the window. Every passing truck makes my stomach twist. And every morning, I wake up hoping something will feel different, that I’ll feel different. Stronger. Less raw.

It hasn’t happened yet.

It’s evening now and I walk out behind my aunt’s cottage with no real destination. Just moving to move. The late summer air clings to my skin, thick and warm, the kind that makes everything feel heavier. Like it’s pressing in on me.

And somehow, my feet carry me to the treehouse.

It’s not much, just a weathered wooden platform and some rebuilt steps nailed into the old oak, half-hidden by overgrown vines and branches. Dean and I built it when we were sixteen. Spent the better part of that summer sneaking beers and pretending we were just friends, while I secretly wished he’d kiss me.

I haven’t been up here in years.

I climb the steps slowly, half expecting the boards to creak loud enough to collapse. But they hold. When I pull myself onto the platform, I freeze.

There’s a blanket spread out across the middle. One of those thick flannel ones with frayed edges and a pattern I vaguely recognize, blue and green with a stitched corner that reads Property of Dean Carter.

I stare at it for a moment, my chest tight.

Then I see the note.

Folded in half. Tucked under a corner of the blanket like it was meant to be found. Like he knew I’d come here eventually.

My hands tremble as I open it.

His handwriting is familiar. Sharp-edged but neat. It looks exactly the way he talks, controlled and deliberate.

I needed time to figure out if I was ready for this.

I’m not.

But I know I want you. I always have.

So if you’ll let me, I’ll figure out the rest.

One day at a time.

That’s it. No signature. No apology. Just the truth, simple and raw.

I sit down slowly, the paper still in my hands. The blanket smells like him, like cedar and sawdust and something I can’t name. Something I miss.

I don’t cry. Not yet.

But my throat feels tight in that dangerous way, like the tears are building, waiting for permission.

I press the note to my chest and close my eyes.

He might not be ready.

But he didn’t walk away, either.

And maybe that’s enough, for now.

The walls in the waiting room are painted a soft green, probably meant to be calming, but it doesn’t work.

I’m trying to breathe evenly. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Like the app says.

But I’m here alone.

I didn’t ask anyone to come. Not my aunt. Not my best friend back in the city. Definitely not Dean.

The receptionist had me fill out the forms twice because I couldn’t stop shaking, and I’ve read the same poster about folic acid three times without absorbing a word. My name echoes through the small room, and I stand slowly, palms damp.

The nurse smiles as she leads me down the hall. “First time seeing the baby?”

I nod.

She gives me a soft look. “We’ll take good care of you.”

The exam room is cooler than the lobby, quieter too. She gives me a gown, tells me the doctor will be in soon, and steps out.

I sit on the table in silence, the paper crinkling beneath me, hands folded tightly in my lap.

And then the door opens and my heart jerks.

Dean steps in, slow and quiet, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be here.

He doesn’t speak.

Just walks across the room, sits beside me, and reaches for my hand.

I let him take it.

His grip is steady. Warm. Like an anchor I didn’t know I needed.

The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable. Just… full. Of everything we haven’t said.

The doctor walks in a minute later and introduces herself with a kind smile and a calm, competent energy that makes me feel like maybe I can do this. Maybe we can.

She gets me settled, talks me through every step of the ultrasound, and then turns the monitor so I can see.

And suddenly, there it is.

A flicker.

Tiny. Fast. So alive.

I blink hard, not trusting myself to speak.

Dean leans in, staring at the screen like it’s magic. His hand tightens around mine. His other lifts to rub at his jaw like he’s holding back something, shock or awe or maybe both.

The sound of the heartbeat fills the room.

And Dean breaks.

Not loudly. Just a single tear that slides down his cheek, slow and disbelieving.

I squeeze his hand. He squeezes back harder.

When it’s over and the doctor steps out, he doesn’t let go.

We sit in the quiet again, our hands still locked between us.

Finally, he turns to me. His voice is rough.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“I don’t either,” I whisper.

“But I know I want to try. Not just for the baby. For you.” His eyes search mine. “I never stopped wanting you.”

Tears sting again. “You walked away.”

“I panicked. I shut down. But I never left.” He pauses, breath shaky. “I was just… figuring out how to come back.”

I nod slowly. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

He leans closer, presses his forehead gently to mine.

“You break me, Mouse,” he whispers. “But I’d break for you every time.”

My breath catches. The nickname hits differently now, soft instead of sharp. Familiar instead of painful.

I look at him through tears. “Then let’s do this broken.”

He kisses my forehead, careful and slow, like a promise.

And for the first time since that test turned positive, I don’t feel so alone.

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: July 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix