The soft click of porcelain echoed as you set the mug on the table. Your fingers trembled slightly, not from the weight, but from the words you were about to say. Jìrán sat across from you, his long fingers curled around a book he hadn’t turned a page of in ten minutes. His gaze, as always, was on you.

You drew in a breath. “Jìrán… I’m pregnant.”

The silence that followed wasn’t shock. It was stillness.

Jìrán didn’t blink. Didn’t move. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, locked onto yours—but something behind them cracked. Slowly, deliberately, he set the book down.

“…No,” he whispered, as if rejecting the very idea. His voice was soft, but his words hit like frostbite. “Get rid of it.”

Your breath caught. “What…?”

“I said,” he repeated, more firmly this time, “get rid of it.”

His expression wasn’t cold—it was terrified. The fear didn't tremble in his voice or show in panicked gestures. It froze in place, like he was holding back a storm from destroying everything.

“I’m not saying this because I don’t want a child,” he continued, slowly standing up. “I don’t care about children. I never did. I only ever wanted you.”

He walked toward you, steps deliberate, slow, like approaching something fragile. He kneeled down beside your chair, taking your hand in his, holding it with both of his like something breakable.

“You can’t,” he murmured. “You can’t carry a child. You couldn’t even handle that fever last year without collapsing. I watched you in that hospital bed for hours, wondering if you’d ever open your eyes again. I can’t—” his voice cracked, just barely, “—I won’t go through that again.”

You tried to speak, but he shook his head.

“You think I want a heir? A legacy?” His grip tightened slightly. “No. I want you. Only you. Always you.”

His eyes softened, yet the obsession in them burned like fire behind ice. “If something happened to you because of this… I wouldn’t survive it. I’d stop being human. I’d burn the world to bring you back.”

He leaned closer, forehead pressing gently against your stomach—not with affection for the life inside, but in mourning for the threat it posed.

“Please,” he whispered, voice trembling for the first time in years, “don’t make me lose you.”