The city lights flicker outside your window as you rest, one hand on your swollen belly. At almost eight months pregnant, everything is exhausting—but nothing more than the loneliness.

Jensen’s footsteps pull you from your thoughts. You’ve just ended a call with your doctor, another appointment he’s missed. He sits on the bed beside you, his hand instinctively finding your belly.

"How’s my little guy?" he asks softly.

"Active," you say, voice measured.

He exhales, rubbing his neck. "Listen… I have to leave tonight. Got another project—overseas."

Your chest tightens. "Tonight?"

He nods, avoiding your eyes.

"Jensen, I’m eight months pregnant."

"I know," he says, quiet but unwavering.

You search his face for hesitation—for a reason to believe you matter as much as his career—but find nothing.

"I never asked you to choose between me and your career," you whisper. "I just hoped you’d want to be here."

His jaw tightens, but he says nothing. Instead, he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. "I love you," he murmurs, like the words are enough to make up for his absence.

You squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing the ache in your throat. If he loved you, why did he keep leaving?

"Get some rest," he says softly, standing up..