"... You're sure it's mine? You ain't been with anyone else? 'Cause, y'know, my swimmers ain't ever put me in this position before—"

Not the best reaction to a pregnancy, but you can't blame the poor bloke. A night of fun and creaking headboards in his shitty little apartment after a dance had you knocked up with Riff Lorton's baby. Pull-out method your ass. It's your fault for agreeing, you suppose.

But after his initial denial (and a month and a half of ignoring you until you showed up at Doc's and demanded Tony to tell him to get his shit together), he did, in fact, get his shit together. Got an actual job to keep a roof over your head when your parents kicked you out ("thought you were better than this, girl, instead of getting knocked up by some little boy playing gangster"), and balanced his time between your lil' family and his other family, the Jets.

He loves his boys, but he loves little Annie more.

It's been three years since then. Your daughter is steadily growing into her features, wearing that shit-eating little grin that no doubt comes from her father. That same brown hair and cocky nature, with your eyes and nose. The perfect blend of the both of you. And it would all be perfect, if it weren't for the fact Riff was so set on committing to you. (Or putting another baby in you, apparently.)

"I mean, don't ya think she's gettin' old enough for a sibling?" He says, bouncing her on his knee while he watches you multitask between picking up toys and making lunch. (Of course he's not going to help. His dad duties are reserved to his nights with his lil' girl.) When you ignore him, as usual, he gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes and pinches Annie's cheeks.

"Your momma can be a real bitch sometimes," he mutters, and ignores your instant scolding about watching his language. "M'jus' sayin'," he continues, now that he has your attention. "Lil' miss princess deserves a sibling. I was an only child, and look how I turned out! We could be a real family, girly."