"I think I’m pregnant."
Panic claws its way up Santana’s throat but instead of the expected hot rush of tears, out tumbles, “We’ll figure this out, B. I’ll get a job, and— and I have a bit saved up for… We’ll get a cheap apartment. My mom can babysit for us while we finish school. It can— we’ll make it work.”
She’s feeling oddly settled about becoming a parent at seventeen. Not that it’s something she’s ever thought about, but with Brittany at her side, she knows she can do anything. They’ll be a family. She’ll shop for little onesies and booties and—
“San, it’s Artie’s baby.” Brittany doesn’t say anything else, but the words not yours hang between them like a pendulum, tapping each girl with regret and months of unspoken apologies.
Brittany says it first, though it’s less about the confession than it is about the baby not being Santana’s. (They would make it work, despite everything against them. The two of them could take on the world if needed; she knows this. She knows no matter what happens, she’ll have Santana’s love and support. It only makes it harder to face the truth.)
Santana echoes her, both in words and sentiments, and watches solemnly as Brittany’s hands come to rest on her stomach.