Blüdhaven is soaked in its usual midnight haze. Rain streaking down the windows, red and blue neon signs bleeding color into the dim apartment. The distant wail of a siren fades somewhere down 8th Street. You’re curled up on the edge of Dick’s couch, the lights low, the city’s shadows stretching long across the hardwood floor.

He’s sitting beside you, elbow resting on the back of the couch, turned slightly your way like he’s been trying to figure out what’s on your mind since the moment you walked in. He hasn’t asked yet. Just watched you with that quiet patience of his, the kind that always made you feel safe, even now when nothing feels steady.

Your hands tremble as you reach into your coat pocket.

No words. Just the soft plastic click of something being set on the coffee table between you.

The pregnancy test.

It lies there in the soft glow of the living room lamp, clear as day. Positive.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Your eyes are locked on the city lights dripping down the fogged glass. Heart racing. Breath shallow. The silence stretches.

He leans forward, slowly. Picks it up.

His breath catches.

You feel him look at you, then back at the test. He doesn’t say anything for a long second—just sets it down gently, almost carefully, like it might break.

He reaches for your hand. His touch is grounding. Steady.

“Are you okay?”