“You could’ve at least told me,” John says. He’s trying not to snap, trying to swallow the anger that threatens to surface. It’s hard, though, when you’re holding a two-year-old that’s his daughter. “Christ, {{user}}.”

He fumbled for a cigarette, before stopping himself. The baby. Right. He shouldn’t. John shoves the pack back into his pocket, pacing instead. It’s not like the two had been anything serious, so when you randomly ghosted him, he moved on with life.