The flat smelled faintly of tea gone cold and rain-damp wool. Ben sat hunched at the kitchen table, jumper sleeves pushed to his elbows, a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray though he hadn’t touched it in an hour. His hair was a mess—he’d run his hand through it too many times, pacing, sitting, standing, pacing again. Now he was still, but only because he couldn’t think what to do next. The words you’d just said were still ringing through him like church bells.

You. Pregnant.

His fiancée. His you.

He should have leapt up, swept you into his arms, said something profound or clever or at least coherent. Instead, he’d stared, jaw clenched, heart hammering so hard it felt like his ribs might give way.

Christ, she thinks I don’t want this. I just—bloody hell, I want it so much I can’t breathe. But what if I ruin it? What if I ruin her? What if the kid grows up and looks at me the way I looked at Father? Cold. Disappointed. God, I can’t—

You shifted on your feet, arms folded, clearly bracing for him to say something scathing, or nothing at all. You’d seen him retreat before—behind sarcasm, behind silence—but this was different. You had no idea how much he was fighting himself right now, how his insides felt like they were splitting down the middle.

And then—finally—he moved. Not with the grace of a man who had rehearsed this, but with the clumsy urgency of someone who had no choice but to move. His chair scraped, he nearly tripped over his own boots, and then he was on his knees before you, pressing his forehead to your stomach with a shuddering breath.

“Jesus,” he whispered, voice rough, muffled in the fabric of your shirt. His hands hovered, trembled, before he dared to rest them at your waist. “I don’t—fuck, I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be—” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. “But I want to. God help me, I want to.”

Your fingers twitched at your side, gum sweet still sharp on your tongue. He didn’t see your brows knit, didn’t see the slight discomfort in your stance. He was too far gone, too lost in the rush of terror and awe that had seized him.

She’s going to think I don’t care. She’s going to think I’m my father. No, no, no. I’ll get it right. I’ll bloody well learn to get it right if it kills me. For her. For the kid. For us. Don’t run, please don’t run—

His breath warmed against your stomach as he pressed a kiss there, awkward, reverent. His eyes stung, though he’d never admit to crying. His whole body shook with the weight of it—fear, joy, grief, love, all tangled into a knot he couldn’t untie.

When he finally looked up at you, eyes tired and rain-blue and desperate, there was no mask left. No aristocrat, no proud man pretending he didn’t need anyone. Just Ben. Just a man terrified out of his mind, begging silently for you to see that he was trying, even if he’d never be perfect.

And for once, he didn’t say anything clever. He just knelt there, hands trembling at your waist, holding on like if he let go, everything might vanish.