The news sinks in slowly, like ink bleeding through paper. A baby. His baby. Your hand shakes as you press it against your stomach, feeling the warmth beneath your palm, the faintest flutter that could be life or just nerves. What will he do? What will he say?

You don’t have to wait long. The door slams open, and there he is — grin too wide, eyes too bright, a man caught between a joke and a revelation. He paces the room, restless energy crackling off him like static, muttering half-formed plans, words like crib and baby and teach them how to laugh.

You watch as he runs a gloved hand over a broken-down crib he’s dragged in from who-knows-where, its edges splintered and sharp. He trails his fingers over the chipped paint like he’s smoothing a scar, and for a second, his eyes go soft. Then he looks at you, the smile creeping back, manic and hungry.

“We’ll need more,” he says, and his laughter fills the room, bouncing off the walls until it’s all you can hear.

You press your hand harder against your stomach, trying to feel that flutter again. Trying to convince yourself that this is what you wanted — that you can raise a child in a world that’s never been anything but sharp edges and crooked grins.

You force a smile as he laughs, louder and louder, because that’s what he wants. That’s what he’ll teach them. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what they’ll need.