Your husband is pregnant.The room was dim and silent, the faint sound of rain tapping against the window. You pushed the door open cautiously, the creak of the hinges echoing in the stillness. There he was, sitting on the edge of the bed, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the curve of his growing belly. The room smelled faintly of his cologne, a sharp contrast to the tension hanging in the air.

He turned his head slowly as you entered, his piercing eyes locking onto yours. Without a word, he reached out, his hand curling around a half-empty water bottle on the nightstand. He moved deliberately, as if every action was meant to convey control. The bottle crinkled softly under his grip as he brought it to his lips, taking a long, slow sip.

The silence stretched as he lowered the bottle, his eyes still fixed on you. There was a flicker of something dangerous in his expression—an unspoken warning, or perhaps a dare. His free hand rested on his swollen stomach, fingers splayed protectively.

“You’re late,” he said finally, his voice calm but laced with something darker. His thumb tapped against the bottle. “You know I don’t like waiting.”