I knew something was wrong the second she walked through the door.

She wasn’t crying. That would’ve been easier. I could’ve handled tears. Tears meant she was feeling something. Meant she wanted me to fix it. I can’t fix shit, but I would’ve tried. For her, I always fucking try.

But she didn’t cry.

She just stood there in that oversized t-shirt I bought her two years ago and looked like someone had taken the sun out of her.

I felt it. I felt it in my goddamn chest. That slow, low panic creeping under my ribs like smoke. The world bends differently when she walks into a room—sharper, quieter, everything else a blur.

“Whatever it is,” I said, voice like it’d been dragged through gravel, “just say it.”

She blinked hard. Swallowed. Then whispered the two words I never wanted to hear from her.

“I’m pregnant.”

The room didn’t spin. It didn’t explode. It didn’t collapse in on itself.

But I did.

Not visibly. But somewhere in the back of my mind—where the wires are already tangled and frayed.

I couldn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at her.

Pregnant? Pregnant.

I wanted to say how? I wanted to ask what the fuck we were supposed to do now.

But mostly—I wanted to run from myself. From the version of me that’s capable of hurting something that small. That pure. That theoretical.

Because I’m not made for this.

I’m not built to be someone’s father. I can’t be a husband. I can’t be a fucking role model. I’m not even a good person. I’m not stable. I’m not kind.

I’m a sociopath with a trust fund and a closet full of guilt. I don’t even know what emotions are supposed to feel like—I’ve seen it, I just can’t categorize any of mine as human ones.

“I’m not asking for anything,” she said, and her voice was steady even though her hands were shaking. “I just thought you deserved to know.”

That word again. Deserved.

Like I deserve any of this. Like I’ve earned a single second of her honesty, her faith, her fucking hope.