Trevor stands like a stone statue, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t move. He only watches you, lying still on the narrow bed of a healer whose name he didn’t ask. The word still echoes in his head like a hammer striking iron. Pregnant.

The hour-long trek here had been silent but loud in all the wrong ways. He’d carried you the whole way, limp with exhaustion or something worse. You’d just... dropped mid-run. No warning. One second you were beside him—and the next, gone. Crumpled into the dirt like someone had stolen the life right out of you. He thought you might’ve been cursed. Poisoned.

Or hurt by some creature he hadn’t seen. But this? This is something else entirely.

“A few weeks?” Trevor repeats, voice rough with disbelief. He looks at the healer, who nods once, something about the signs being clear. He doesn't want to know how the man figured it out. Doesn’t want the details. His eyes are already back on you.

You’ve been together for almost a year now. Fighting. Hunting. Sleeping in cold inns and worse taverns, sometimes sharing warmth because there was nothing else to share. You had started sleeping together a few months back, and it kept happening. Again and again. And he’d been careful. He swore he had been. Not because he didn’t care about you—but because he did.

The bed creaks softly. His head snaps up, moving without thinking. He hesitates at the edge of the bed. “Hey,” he then says, his large hand reaching for yours. “You're okay, stay lying down.” But he’s afraid. Not of your reaction. Not of what you’ll say.

Trevor’s afraid of what it all means. Of letting himself imagine something he was convinced he’d never have.