The TV flickers in the dimly lit living room, the volume turned up just loud enough to echo the announcer’s voice through the apartment. Anders is sprawled on the couch, hockey still consuming his attention even when he isn’t on the ice. His face is a mess—bruises blotched purple and yellow, a cut swelling along his cheekbone, and the bandage stretched tight across his eyebrow from last night’s fight. Every time he shifts, you can hear the hiss of breath he tries to swallow back.

You stand in the doorway, clutching the little bundle in your hands. Your pulse won’t slow, your heart hammering against your ribs as if it’s trying to break out. The nerves twist tighter with every second he doesn’t look at you, too wrapped up in the game to notice.

Finally, you clear your throat. “Anders… I, uh… I got you something.”

That gets his attention. He drags his gaze off the TV, eyes bloodshot and tired, fixing on you. For once, there isn’t much fire behind them—just that blank, bruised exhaustion. His brow furrows as you walk over and set the little jersey in his lap. It’s soft, tiny, a perfect replica of his own team colors and number, but shrunken down to baby size.

At first, he just stares. Then his lip curls.

“What the fuck is that?” His voice cuts through the room, sharp and rough.

Your throat tightens, but you steady yourself. “It’s… it’s for our baby.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than any fight. The crowd cheers on the TV, but in this room, it’s only the sound of him breathing, chest rising and falling like he’s trying to wrestle with the weight of it. His fingers tighten around the tiny jersey, knuckles whitening.

Anders doesn’t say anything right away. He just stares at it, bruised face unreadable, like the sight of something so small and innocent doesn’t belong in his world of fists, blood, and broken bones.

Finally, his jaw clenches. “You’re serious?”