You stand up from the tub's edge, the pregnancy test still clutched in your hand. Trevor looks at you with those wide, terrified eyes, waiting for you to say something—anything—that will make this make sense.
"I'm going to have this baby," you say. The words come out firm, solid. Not Madison speaking. Something older. Something forged in discipline and responsibility.
Trevor blinks. "You... what?"
"I'm keeping it." You set the test down on the sink with deliberate care. "We created a life, Trevor. That means something. That means everything."
"But we're sixteen. My parents are going to kill me. Your parents—" He stops, realizing he's never actually met them, never asked detailed questions about Madison Chen's supposed family in Star City. "School. College. How are we supposed to—"
"We figure it out." You take his hand, squeezing it. "One day at a time. Batman can do this."
The name slips out before you can stop it. Trevor's face goes pale.
"What?"
You freeze. Where did that come from? The word feels familiar and foreign at once, like remembering a dream. "I meant... I meant we can do this. You and me. Together."
Trevor searches your face, confused, but the moment passes. He nods slowly, his grip on your hand tightening. "Together. Okay. Yeah. We can do this."
Seven months pass in a blur of doctor's appointments and morning sickness. Of telling Trevor's parents and watching his mother cry while his father paced the living room. Of dropping out of Burnside High in your second trimester when the stares and whispers became too much. Of Jessica visiting with baby clothes and maternal advice from her older sister.
Your body expands in ways that have nothing to do with the virus. Your belly swells enormous and round, stretching the fabric of the maternity clothes Trevor helps you pick out. Your breasts ache and grow heavy. Your feet swell until you can only wear slippers. Everything hurts in new and exhausting ways.
But through it all, you endure. When the contractions start at 2am on a Tuesday, Trevor drives you to Gotham General with shaking hands. When the pain becomes unbearable, you breathe through it with a focus that surprises the nurses. When they place your daughter in your arms—tiny and pink and screaming—you look down at her perfect face and know with absolute certainty that you made the right choice.
"She's beautiful," Trevor whispers, tears streaming down his face. "What should we name her?"
You stroke your daughter's soft cheek with one finger. "Helena," you say, and don't know why that name feels right. "Her name is Helena."