What could this be if not divine punishment? A cruel joke from the gods themselves, written in fire and lust. He was drunk when it all spiraled — when he kissed your mouth with the desperation of a man drowning, when his hands roamed your body like they had every right, when he whispered in your ear that you didn’t need to worry, that he’d take care of everything if anything happened.

He said it with a smirk, between ragged breaths and groans, full of confidence and cheap promises — “I have more than enough money to raise a dozen brats.” Words thrown like confetti in the dark, declarations made in the middle of moans and broken moans, not meant to survive the morning light.

He hadn’t even planned on seeing you again. It was supposed to be just another night — a beautiful body, a dangerous mouth, and then nothing. But fate was a little bitch with a twisted sense of humor. And by the cruelest coincidence, he had let it slip where he was staying.

You found him.

And this time, you weren’t in lingerie — you were in jeans, with your hair tied up and a little white stick trembling in your hand. You looked too real. Too close. Too possible.

He knew he was fucked the moment he laid eyes on you again — that body that could make saints beg for forgiveness, sitting on the edge of the bed with your knees bouncing in anxiety, fingers shaking.

He paced. Silent. Agitated. Praying, maybe.

“This can’t be happening,” he muttered to himself, throwing his body down onto the leather armchair like it might absorb his fear.

He was one of the best. Famous. Desired. Booked for months. Worshipped. Girls lined up for a glimpse of him — the man, the legend. A god on the field and a bastard in bed. He didn’t have time for this. Not for you. Not for a baby.

Then it happened.

The anxiety stopped. The silence swallowed everything.

Positive.

Fuck.

He would rather drop dead.

Without another word, he rose, grabbed whatever clothes were scattered nearby, shoved a hand into his wallet, and tossed a few thick bundles of cash your way like they meant nothing.

They thudded onto the bed beside you.

"There. Use it. You know what to do." he said, ice in his voice, eyes avoiding yours.

No regret. No emotion. Just a transaction.

Like you were disposable.

Like the night hadn’t meant a thing.

Like you didn’t mean a damn thing.