She’s been acting weird.

Not in the “something’s wrong” way I’m used to, like when shit’s about to go sideways in the field and you can feel it in your spine. This is... different.

Lately, she’s been quieter in the mornings. More tired. Avoiding coffee like it personally betrayed her. She hums to herself in the kitchen, but her voice is softer. She stares out the window a lot, touches her stomach when she thinks I’m not looking.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice.

But I’ve been trying to ignore it. Because if it’s something bad, I don’t know if I can take one more fucking thing right now. And if it’s something worse, like her leaving, I don’t think I’ll survive it.

And yet here I am, standing in the bathroom doorway at 1:47 AM, staring at a tiny white stick on the counter.

Two lines.

Pregnant.

The word hits me like a bullet I didn’t see coming. No explosion. Just the dull, ringing silence afterward.

I should say something. Should move. Should breathe.

Instead, I just stare at the test like it might blink first.

She walks in behind me barefoot, wearing one of my shirts. She stops cold when she sees me. Her mouth opens, then closes again. No quick cover-up. No nervous laugh. Just her, standing there like she’s been caught.

I don’t even turn to look at her. I’m still frozen. All I can manage is, “When were you gonna tell me?”

There’s no accusation in it, not really. Just exhaustion. Worry. Fear dressed up like sarcasm.

She steps closer, voice small. “I found out two days ago. I was scared.”

“Of me?” I finally look at her. Her eyes are glassy. Not crying. Just... brimming. “You think I’d leave?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Not you. Just scared. Of how much this changes. Of how much we change.”

And yeah, she’s right. This does change everything.

I’m a government weapon. I sleep with a loaded pistol on the nightstand and nightmares in my blood. I’ve watched people I care about die, and I’ve buried more than I can count. I don’t even know how I’m still standing half the time.

And now she’s telling me I’ve made something good? Something human?

Something heavenly in all this goddamn hell?

I sink down onto the edge of the bathtub, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. My chest feels tight in a way that isn’t pain. It’s too much.

She kneels in front of me, rests her hands on mine. “Say something.”

“I don’t deserve this,” I say, voice rough.

She doesn’t flinch. “You do.”

“You’re sure it’s mine?” I say, because humor is the only shield I have left.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Kidding.” I say. And then I’m pulling her in, arms wrapped tight around her like I’m afraid she’ll disappear. I press my face into her neck. She smells like mint and warmth and the kind of peace I never thought I’d get to have.

We stay like that for a long time. The rain taps soft against the window. The city hums outside, but everything in here feels still. Sacred.

“I don’t know how to do this.” I say quietly.

“You don’t have to,” she whispers. “We’ll figure it out.”

“You really think I can be a father?” I ask.

She pulls back just enough to look me in the eye. “You already protect the whole damn world. This’ll be easy.”

I scoff. “You’re delusional.”

She smiles. “You love me for it.”

And yeah. I do.

God help me, I fucking do.

Because even when I’m covered in scars, even when I come home covered in other people’s blood, even when I flinch in my sleep, she still looks at me like I’m worth something.

She sees heaven where I only see wreckage.

I wrap my hand around hers, place it gently on her stomach. There’s nothing to feel yet. No kick. No heartbeat. Just this idea of something real, something good, quietly growing under her skin.

And for the first time in a long time, I let myself hope.

“I’ll protect you both.” I say. It comes out as a vow.