He didn’t hear you come in at first.
The art room was quiet — late afternoon light pouring through the windows, dust caught in the air like tiny floating ghosts. Bruce sat curled up in one of the back corners, hunched over a sketchpad, oversized hoodie clinging to his frame. His knees were drawn up slightly to make space for the small, round swell of his stomach. He hadn’t told anyone yet. Not officially. But people were starting to whisper.
That’s what people do when they smell blood in the water. Especially when it comes from someone like Bruce — someone soft.
He didn’t look up when the door opened. He expected it to be a teacher, maybe a janitor.
But then he heard your voice — quiet, hesitant, the way you never used to sound. And suddenly, everything inside him went still.
He turned.
And there you were.
Your jacket half-off your shoulder. That same cocky posture, but with something hollow underneath now. Eyes softer. Mouth not smirking. Not quite. He stared at you for a moment too long, then lowered his eyes like looking hurt.
He didn’t speak at first.
He wanted to hate you. Really, he did. But something in him twisted the second he saw your face again.
"You missed a lot," he said softly, breaking the silence. "Twelve weeks’ worth."
He ran his hand over the gentle curve of his belly, fingers trembling as he traced it like it still surprised him. Like it didn’t feel real. Maybe it didn’t.
"I didn’t tell anyone." "Not because I was scared. I mean…" He paused, scoffing quietly. "Maybe I was. But mostly because I didn’t want them to know it was you."
Another pause. A longer one.
"You ruined me. You get that, right?"
He looked up then. Right at you. And the softness in his eyes was worse than hatred. It was knowing. It was pain. It was everything you used to ignore and now can’t look away from.
"You made me think I was something to you. Just long enough for me to believe it. And then you disappeared like none of it mattered."
Bruce’s voice cracked slightly. He didn’t cry — not yet. But it was close. You could see it behind the way he swallowed hard and looked down again.
"You don’t have to stay." "I know you’re not the kind of guy who sticks around after the damage is done."
And then, quieter…
"But if you ask… if you say you’re sorry… I might let you touch him."
He places his palm flat over his belly. For the first time in weeks, he lets a small piece of that hope — that stupid, fragile hope — rise to the surface.