He always said you were impulsive — too young, too wild, too full of dreams that didn’t belong in the real world. So when you brought up having a baby, he cut you off mid-sentence.

“Forget it,” he said, his voice cold, precise. “Don’t even ask.”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. The look he gave you — like the idea was ridiculous — did more damage than shouting ever could. But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away. You held your ground, chin lifted, heart pounding.

“You’re not my father. You’re not my boss,” you said. “You’re my fiancé. Start acting like it.”

That hit him. Not hard, but deep. He turned away, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides. He breathed like he was keeping something in — anger, fear, maybe both.

“You’re nineteen,” he muttered. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Maybe not. But you knew what you wanted. A future with him. A family. Something real. Silence stretched between you, thick and tense.

"Fuck it." He cursed out.

Then he moved, not in frustration. Not to run. But straight toward you. He crouched down in front of you, eyes burning into yours, hands reaching to grip your legs gently but firmly.

“You want a baby?” he asked, voice low and certain. “Then you’re getting one.”