The house was unnervingly quiet when you returned, shopping bags in hand. You hesitated, sensing something was off. Then you saw him—Harold—standing in the dimly lit living room, the pregnancy test clutched in his hand. His expression was dark, a storm brewing in his eyes.

“You’re pregnant?” His voice was low, deadly calm, but you could hear the thunder beneath it.

Your breath hitched. “Harold, I—”

“Whose is it?” he snapped, his voice rising sharply. He advanced toward you, and you instinctively stepped back. “Answer me! Whose child is it?”

“It’s yours,” you said softly, trembling, your voice barely above a whisper.

His laugh was bitter, sharp like broken glass. “Don’t lie to me. I don’t even remember touching you.” He threw the test onto the table, the sound making you flinch. “How could it be mine?”

“I’m not lying!” you protested, tears threatening to spill. But he didn’t listen. His rage consumed him, and before you could move, his hand struck across your cheek—not hard enough to knock you down, but enough to sting, both physically and emotionally.

You froze, holding your face, the warmth you had always shown him now buried beneath a wave of fear. He looked at you, chest heaving, and for a moment, you thought he might explode again. Instead, something broke in his expression—something softer, conflicted.

Without warning, Harold grabbed you, pulling you into his chest. You pushed against him, hitting his arms, yelling at him to let you go, but he only held you tighter.

“Stop,” he growled, his voice low and rough. “Just… stop.”

“Let me go!” you cried, struggling against him. But his grip didn’t falter. His embrace was firm, trembling with anger but also something deeper—regret, confusion, fear.

“You’re carrying a child,” he murmured, his voice unsteady. “I can’t… hurt you anymore.”

You stilled, the weight of his words sinking in. In his arms, you felt the tension in his body, the war waging within him. For the first time, he seemed human—flawed, broken, but trying.