Zaire Cruz

Zaire’s pov -

The clinic was quiet. Cold. Too white for comfort.

I walked in with my hood low and my jaw locked. This wasn’t something I talked about not even with my boys. No one needed to know that somewhere in this building, vials of my future were locked away in a freezer behind two sets of keycard doors and a liability waiver I’d read twice.

I wasn’t trying to donate. I wasn’t playing hero for some couple’s holiday card.

I was protecting my bloodline for the day I finally decided to slow down, settle down, and build something real.

That day wasn’t anywhere close.

But when it came, I wanted to be ready. My call. My terms. Not an accident. Not a “we’ll figure it out.” Me. Deciding.

Control. That’s what I was buying.

“Mr. Cruz?” a nurse called, stepping into the waiting room.

I nodded once and followed her down the hallway without a word. My boots thudded softly against the polished floor. The sound bounced back at me hollow. Sterile.

The same baby pictures lined the walls. The same framed quotes about miracles and motherhood. Black script on white matte. *Every child begins the world again.*

It all felt ironic now. Like the walls knew something I didn’t.

“Dr. Quinn will see you in his office,” the nurse said, her voice a little too clipped. A little too careful.

That was my first red flag.

When I stepped inside, Dr. Quinn was already standing behind his desk. Usually the man carried himself with calm confidence. The kind of guy who shakes your hand like he’s closing on a house, not handling your DNA.

Today, something was different.

Tighter.

“Zaire,” he said. “Thanks for coming in on such short notice.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, staying on my feet. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Wasn’t in the mood for the leather chair or the offer of water.

The doctor gestured to the chair across from him.

“Please, sit.”

I didn’t move.

“Say it.”

Dr. Quinn sighed quietly before meeting my eyes. It was the kind of sigh that costs people their jobs. Their reputations.

“There was a mistake. A mishandling of a sample. Yours.”

My chest tightened. Not panic not yet. Something colder. Like someone dumped ice water down my spine and I had to stand there and take it.

“Define mishandling.”

“A patient came in yesterday for a scheduled insemination using an anonymous donor,” Dr. Quinn explained carefully. Each word measured, like he was laying out evidence in court. “But due to a clerical error... the wrong vial was selected from storage.”

Silence stretched between us. I could hear the HVAC humming. The clock ticking. My own blood in my ears.

Dr. Quinn continued.

“Your sample was used.”

I blinked slowly. Had to. If I didn’t, I wasn’t sure what my face would do.

“You used my sperm?” I said, voice dangerously calm. The kind of calm my brothers know means run. “The one labeled private use only?”

Dr. Quinn nodded once.

“Yes. By mistake.”

Another silence fell over the room. This one had weight. It sat on my chest, pressed against my ribs.

I turned away from the desk, my jaw flexing as my fists clenched at my sides. I needed to look at anything else. The window. The framed degrees. The goddamn plant in the corner that was somehow still alive in this place.

“Does she know?” I asked finally, my voice low. Scraped raw.

“No. Not yet. We’re informing her today.”

I turned back, my eyes colder now.

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Kyra Taylor. Twenty-seven. Local.” Dr. Quinn paused. I watched him decide how much to give me. “She selected donor number 42183. That donor isn’t you, but the labels were crossed.”

I dragged a hand down my face slowly, like I was trying to wipe the reality off my skin. But it was already under there. In my bloodstream. In my future.

“I didn’t do this for them,” I muttered. “I didn’t give you permission for this.”

“I know,” Dr. Quinn said quickly. “Legally, we’re liable. You aren’t. But ethically... we wanted to give you the chance to decide how involved you’d like to be if the pregnancy takes.”

I looked up sharply. That sentence hit like a hook to the ribs.

“So she might be pregnant with my kid.”

“Yes.”

I paced once across the office. Then again. The room was too small. The walls were too close. My skin felt too tight, like my body was rejecting the news before my brain could.

Finally I stopped.

“When can I talk to her?” I asked.

My voice was flat, but underneath it something flickered. Heat. Pressure. A tightness in my chest I hadn’t felt in years since I was seventeen and had to decide if I was gonna swing back or walk away.

Dr. Quinn exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair.

“I can call her now. But I can’t share the details until she’s here. Ethically, she deserves to hear it in person... and with you present, if you’re open to that.”

I didn’t answer right away.

My gaze drifted to a framed photo on the wall Dr. Quinn standing beside a smiling toddler with a gap-toothed grin and arms stretched wide. The kind of photo you hang when you believe you’re changing lives. Saving them.

Right now it felt like a punchline. And I was the joke.

“Call her,” I said finally. “Set it up.”

A pause.

“Just don’t take too long.”

Dr. Quinn nodded and reached for the phone.

---

Kyra**

I was curled up on my couch with a bowl of cereal, still wearing the oversized T-shirt I’d slept in.

On the TV, a documentary played about women who gave birth to twins with two different fathers. I was halfway through it, half-listening, when my phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

I rolled my eyes.

“Ugh. Telemarketers already?”

Still, something made me answer. Maybe it was the way the apartment felt too quiet. Maybe it was the way my stomach had been in knots since I woke up, for no reason I could name.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Kyra Taylor?”

“Yes?”

“This is Nurse Haley from Quinn Fertility Center. Dr. Quinn was hoping to meet with you in person today, if possible.”

I straightened on the couch. The spoon clinked against the bowl and I set it down too fast. Milk sloshed over the side.

“Oh. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, nothing urgent,” the nurse said quickly. Too quickly. The way people talk when they’re reading from a script titled *Don’t Cause Panic.* “Dr. Quinn just wants to discuss some details and next steps. Are you available this afternoon?”

My stomach twisted not in a bad way, but in that strange *something’s coming* kind of way. Like when the barometric pressure drops and your head knows it before the sky does.

“Sure,” I said slowly. “What time?”

“Three p.m.”

“I’ll be there.”

They ended the call.

I stared at my phone for a moment. Then down at my half-eaten bowl of cereal. The flakes were disintegrating, turning the milk cloudy.

*Details and next steps.*

It sounded simple enough. Clean. Clinical.

But something about the nurse’s tone told me this wasn’t routine.

Something had shifted.

And I was about to find out exactly what.