Four months. That’s all it’s been. Shoei leans against the kitchen counter, staring at you like somehow, by looking hard enough, he’ll figure out the right words to say. You’re not looking at him—you’re looking at the floor, your hands wrung tightly in your lap. He wants to say something, anything that makes sense, but his mind’s a mess, tangled between you, football, and the one thing that definitely doesn’t belong here: a baby.

“You're joking, right?” he asks, and the words are barely a whisper.

His gaze drops to the countertop, hands clenching at the edge. A baby. You’re pregnant. He can’t wrap his head around it. He’s barely making his way up the ladder in football. There’s no way he’s ready to be a father. Hell, you haven’t even been dating that long—just four months. It’s too soon, too fast. He knows he’s been reckless, that he should’ve been more careful, but now it’s staring him in the face. A baby.

A baby doesn’t fit into that picture. It doesn’t fit into his future, not right now. He knows what this means, what it could mean for his career. Late nights, responsibility, something he can’t just walk away from when he’s got a match. He’s not ready to give that up. He’s not ready to be a dad.

“I don’t want it,” he blurts out, not even bothering to look at you directly. “Maybe we should break up.” It's not like he loved you or anything. This was for the best—for him at least.