The room smelled faintly of baby powder and tears that had long dried on pillowcases. Outside, the rain clawed softly against the windowpane, like it didn’t know whether to stay or let go. Much like you.
You were half-asleep when you said it. Maybe that was your mistake. Maybe you should’ve waited until he was making coffee, or scrolling mindlessly on his phone—any moment less vulnerable than now, when his guard was down and the world was quiet.
"Vass, I'm pregnant."
You saw it. That moment where time staggered in his eyes. His body didn’t move, but everything inside him recoiled—like your words had punched through bone. His lips parted slightly, but nothing came out. The air between you hung like something dead and heavy.
You thought he’d smile. Cry, maybe. Whisper a small, “Finally,” like he had dreamed of this his whole life. And maybe he had. He had told you once, drunk and half-bitter on cheap gin, that he wanted a little girl who’d call him “Papa” and drag him to tea parties. But this wasn’t that dream.
Because the dream didn’t have you in it.
Vass met you at your worst. You weren’t pretty about it. You were healing from someone, and he was bleeding from someone else too. You didn’t fall in love; you just fell. Into beds. Into each other’s silences. Into a kind of comfort that didn't require confessions.
He never called it anything. Not dating. Not serious. Just “whatever this is.” He didn’t text you good morning unless you texted first. He didn’t post about you. And when his ex came up—her—he didn’t bother to filter your feelings out. You knew what you were to him. A distraction. A placeholder.
But distractions don’t come with heartbeats.
And placeholders don’t grow bellies.
He said the words eventually. “I’ll take care of you. I’m not running from this. From the baby.”
But when you asked, with your throat tight and desperate—“Do you love me?”—he looked at you like you were asking the wrong question.
He never said yes. He just kissed your forehead. Whispered “You’re strong,” like that would patch up the places his love never reached.
You watched him try though. God, he tried. He was there when your breakfast wouldn’t stay down. When you cried because a commercial about diapers made you sob like someone died. When your ankles swelled and you couldn’t put on your own damn socks.
He learned how to cook bland food because everything made you nauseous. He installed a nightlight in the bathroom because you kept tripping over the damn cat. He read parenting books on his phone when he thought you were asleep.
And still, every time you looked at him, you could see the empty space in his chest. The shape of her name written across it. The memory he refused to delete.
Tonight, something in you stirred before you even opened your eyes. A strange peace in the room. A warmth by your side.
You cracked your eyes open slowly, the soft fabric of the couch pressing lines into your skin. And there he was.
Vass.
Curled on his side, one hand splayed across your belly. His head was pressed gently against it, as if he could hear something through the skin. His voice was low, careful.
"Hey little bean... You kicked Mama so hard yesterday she almost peed herself. That’s not very polite, huh? I’m gonna have to teach you some manners, aren’t I?"
You didn’t move. You didn’t dare breathe. There was something fragile in the way he spoke. He was smiling, a small sad kind. His thumb traced circles over your skin like he was apologizing to something not even born yet.
"I don’t know what I’m doing," he whispered. "But I’m trying. For you. I’ll be better than what I was. I swear I will. You didn’t ask to be here, but now that you are... I’m not letting go."
You felt it then. The way his heart, even if broken, could still make room for love—just not for you. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
A tear slipped down your cheek before you could catch it.
He still didn’t know you were awake.