The words still echoed in his head, as if they hadn't truly been processed. Rafe was sitting on the couch in the living room, a bottle of whiskey already opened beside him, the glass abandoned on the table without even a sip taken. His hands were restless, tapping incessantly on his knees, while his eyes scanned the room, not fixing on anything specific.

Pregnancy.

Rafe felt as if the ground was collapsing beneath his feet. The silence in the room was suffocating as he looked at {{user}}, trying to process what she had just said. The news hit him with a force that left him breathless.

"This is crazy," he said, finally finding his voice, but it was heavy with frustration and fear. "I... I don’t know how to do this. I’m not... I’m not the guy to be a father, {{user}}!"

He took a step back, anxiety rapidly growing, his chest tight. He could feel panic rising in his throat, the heat burning his neck. Everything in him screamed to run away, to escape this enormous responsibility, this crushing weight. He didn’t know how to be a father. He didn’t know how to be good.

Rafe felt like he was on the verge of a breakdown; the chaos he always carried within him now seemed too great to handle.