You thought you planned it perfectly. A small birthday party at your friend’s place. A few friends, some cake, nothing big. Nothing risky. You didn’t even post anything about it online. You’d been careful, you’d kept your secret safe.

But secrets don’t stay buried. Not when they have his eyes. And not when fate has a sick sense of humor.

You were kneeling next to the cake, holding your toddler steady as everyone gathered to sing. You didn’t see the car park across the street. Didn’t see the boots hit the curb. But you felt him. His presence always hit like thunder. Low. Building. Dangerous.

“Happy birthday to you…”

The last note had barely ended before a voice cut through the backyard like a blade.

“Cute kid.”

You froze and the knife in your hand slipped slightly against the cake.

You looked up—and there he was. Soap.

Black shirt stretched across broad shoulders. Dog tags visible. Jaw locked so tight it could crack. But it was his eyes, those furious, betrayed eyes, that made your stomach drop.

Your friends started murmuring, confused. Your friend stepped forward, but Soap didn’t look at her. He only looked at you and the baby in your arms.

“Ye wanna explain why they have my fuckin’ face?”

You stood slowly, hands trembling. Someone tried to intervene. He shoved past them. The child looked up at him. Innocent. Curious. Smiling.

And it destroyed him.

“Jesus Christ…” he whispered, backing up a step like the truth had just hit him. “Ye really didn’t plan to tell me, did ye? I wasn’t ever supposed to know.”

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off.

“Ye let me think I was just some fuckin’ phase. Ye ran off with my blood in your arms and didn’t even flinch.”