Well Suited

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Chemistry is my love language.

There’s no magic to falling in love. A shot of dopamine, a dash of serotonin, and a sprinkle of oxytocin—and bam. You’re in.

And when egg meets sperm, you’re pregnant.

Staring down at the little blue plus sign. I know exactly when and how, and with whom it happened. 

When: approximately five weeks ago.
Who: one night stand.
How: prophylactic malfunction.

Genetically, he’s the cream of the crop. His musculature is a study in symmetry and strength, his height imposing, dominant. He is a man who thrives on control and command, a man who survives on intelligence and resourcefulness. A perfect male specimen.

And the whole package is wrapped up in a flawlessly tailored suit. 

I’m having the baby, and he insists we’re well-suited to have it together. And what’s worse? He wants more, in the way of love and marriage.

But love isn’t real. It’s just a product of chemistry.

And if he changes my mind about that, we’re both in trouble.