His eyes lock on yours, but they don’t soften. Not right away. They stay wide, flat, stunned.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

He looks back down at the test. Like maybe if he stares hard enough, it’ll change its mind. But the result doesn't change. Positive.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice low, more like a breath than a word. “No. No, no, no. Goddamn it.”

He steps back, pacing the way he does when work goes sideways, when the truck doesn’t start, when bills stack too high on the counter.

You’ve been seeing each other for what, nine months? Ten? Long enough to get used to your toothbrush next to his, but not long enough to call anything permanent. No rings. No big talks. Just nights that start with tired laughter and end with you curled into his side like you belonged there.

But... this.

You lean against the kitchen counter, observing him.

“I got bills to pay,” he growls suddenly, voice rising now. “I bust my ass every goddamn day, break my damn back in the heat, and for what? You think I can take care of a whole other life right now?”

His hand slams down on the edge of the counter, the test being trown, not near you, never near you, but the sound cracks through the quiet.

“This ain’t supposed to happen. Not now. Not like this.”