The sea outside his windows was pale and still, the kind of quiet that felt like waiting. Like something holding its breath.

Rafayel’s fingers moved absently, the brush in his hand dragging paint across canvas in lazy, thoughtless swipes. The piece was nothing—just light and shadows right now—but he couldn’t focus. Not really. Not since {{user}} messaged him hours ago: “Need to talk to you tonight. Urgent.” Nothing else. No heart, no voice note, no babe. Just that. Sterile. Fatal.

He’d reread it about twenty times before the paranoia started crawling up his spine.

Maybe this was it. Maybe this was when she told him she was done. Maybe she’d finally decided he was too strange, too unhinged, too him. He hadn't felt anything shift, but that only made it worse. Real heartbreak didn't always send warnings. Sometimes it knocked quietly, dressed in soft words and nervous smiles.

He had scrolled through her location history like a coward. No unfamiliar addresses. No hidden visits to anyone he didn’t know. Her routine was as familiar as his own brush strokes. Work. Market. Her place. Here. Always back here.

He should feel reassured.

Instead, his thumb tapped against his thigh, over and over, a quiet percussion of anxiety.

When he hears the soft beep of the code punching in, he freezes for just a second. The canvas becomes suddenly irrelevant. The paint dries without permission. He does not go to meet her. He dips his brush again, stays exactly where he is, and pretends to be disinterested. Indifferent.

When she steps into the studio, he doesn’t look up at first. Not right away. He knows exactly where she’s standing. Knows the way her breath shifts the air around her. Her heat, her scent. Her. The gravity of her arrival pulls at him, tugs at something ancient in his blood.

He turns only slightly, enough to peer at her from the corner of his eye, brush still in hand. His voice is smooth, almost lazy. Too smooth. “Mm. You’re here.”

Then he sees the bag.

Her smile is anxious. She never smiles like that with him. He hates it.

He takes the bag, but carefully—like it might detonate.

Inside: a picture frame. Silver. Elegant. He pulls it out, squints.

The photo—he doesn’t understand it at first. Some kind of sonogram, maybe? Medical-looking. Grainy. Abstract.

Then he notices the frame.

"Happy Father’s Day!"

The world snaps into absolute silence.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Looks up.

Looks back down.

“I’m not a father?” he says blankly, and then— Oh.

The words echo inside him like a wave collapsing.

“I’m not—” His eyes meet hers again. The color drains out of his face and then rushes back all at once. He sits back slightly, as if someone’s punched him through the ribs. His lips part. Close. Part again.

“I…” His throat is dry. “You mean—you’re…” His voice cuts off with a sharp exhale. His brush slips from his fingers and clatters to the floor.

There’s a long, reverent pause. His hand moves, almost involuntarily, toward her belly, but stops just short. Hovering. Shaking.

“…Mine?”

That last word isn’t a question.

It’s a prayer.