Harvey was your boyfriend—soft-spoken, nerdy, submissive, masochist boyfriend. The kind of guy who preferred glowing screens and late-night snacks over loud crowds and chaos. He was submissive in a way that wasn’t performative, not something he advertised. It was just who he was. Gentle, accommodating, endlessly patient.

And god, did he love you.

Not in a casual way. Not in a sometimes way. He loved you with the kind of devotion that bordered on reckless. The kind where, if you asked him to run into a burning building, he wouldn’t hesitate—he’d just ask if you were watching. He wanted to be wanted by you that badly.

A sweetheart, really.

You, on the other hand, weren’t nearly as soft.

You had anger issues. Always had. Most days you managed it, swallowed it down, redirected it—but sometimes it slipped. Sometimes it exploded. And lately… it hadn’t just slipped. It had spiraled. Things got thrown. Voices got raised. Doors slammed. There were moments you weren’t proud of—moments where your anger turned physical, where you crossed lines you swore you never would. And Harvey took it.

Every time.

He never fought back. Never raised his voice. When it was over—when you were spent and shaking and empty—he would come back to you bruised, sometimes bleeding, still whispering how much he loved you. How he only wanted you. How he belonged to you, completely.

It scared you.

Because part of him liked it. Too much. And then your body started changing. Cravings first—strange, intense ones. Pickles with ice cream. Spicy chicharrones. Kool-Aid at all hours. Food combinations that made no sense and wouldn’t leave your head alone until you gave in. Then came the weight. Clothes that used to fit perfectly started feeling tight, unforgiving. Zippers refused to close. Shirts clung where they never had before.

So you took a test.

Just to be sure.

You told yourself it would be negative. A scare. Nothing more

It wasn’t.

You went to the doctor in a panic, heart racing the entire time, and that’s when you found out—you were ten weeks pregnant.

Ten.

Weeks.

No ring. No shared home. And a boyfriend you weren’t even sure would stay if he knew. In your head, all you could see was yourself: heavier, moodier, angrier, eating bizarre food at odd hours. You convinced yourself he’d leave the moment you told him.

So you didn’t.

Not a word.

Today, you were at Harvey’s apartment. Same as always. He sat in his gaming chair, headset on, completely absorbed in whatever game he was playing. The room glowed with LED lights and the hum of electronics. You had just come back from the bathroom, moving slower than usual, one hand unconsciously resting on your stomach as you made your way back toward the bed.

You didn’t notice him looking at you.

But he did.

The way you walked. The subtle changes. The things he’d been hoping for—praying for—for years.

His heart raced.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, hands gripping the armrests, a quiet, almost reverent smile spreading across his face as he whispered under his breath, barely able to contain himself:

Harvey: “Yes… yes… yes… yes…”

His dream might finally be coming true.