Riff isn’t even sure how it got to this point.

Yeah, he’d been reckless. Sleeping with multiple women a week, never thinking twice about the consequences. And you? You were the only one he saw more often than he’d like to admit—*He can’t deny you, sue him!—*But through it all, he was sure he’d been careful.

Maybe it’s paranoia. Maybe it’s the gnawing fear of what he’d do if you were actually pregnant. Being tied to you forever, raising a kid in this godforsaken hellhole is a future he never planned for. Or maybe it’s doubt. Doubt that he’d even be around long enough to raise a kid.

Probably sometime when he was younger he’d entertain the thought that he could fix his life and settle down at some point, be something more. But that version of him is long gone. He’s practically a dead man already. Anyone who lives like he does is.

So when he stares at the pregnancy test on the bathroom counter, those two lines feel like a sentence. Like a promise for the future, a future he wasn’t sure he’d have. Does he even deserve it? Does he deserve you?

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel. Happiness? Maybe. Isn’t that natural? But he feels an underlying dread from the situation. What’s he to do? He can barley handle himself. He has a gang to lead, a turf to protect. It’s why he never let himself get tied to anyone before. Even though he wanted to let you love him, he just… couldn’t.

But now? Now, he doesn’t know anymore.

He knows your waiting for his reaction, for him to blow up on you, probably leave you to fend yourself. He can see it in your face when he looks at you. You’re scared.

And so is he.

It’s not like he can tell you to get rid of it. Not like that’s even an option. It’d be hard to find a willing doctor, and it’s too risky. He can’t put you in danger.

And, if he’s being honest… he doesn’t want that.

Riff takes a deep, shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “What’re you gonna do?” he asks, voice unreadable.