The cold hospital’s air crawls under Bruce’s skin. He stands beside the bed, arms crossed tight against his ribs like it might keep the pieces of himself from shifting out of place. You’re here. Alive. Breathing. That should be enough. But it isn’t.

You’re pregnant. That’s what the doctor said when he walked in. Pregnant. With his child. He thought—no, expected—his name would’ve been scratched off your emergency contact list the moment you walked out of the manor three months ago. After the fight. He just thought, if you knew everything, then maybe it would be enough to hold you both together. It wasn’t.

But you didn’t sever everything. He hadn’t known what that meant. Not until now.

The doctor stands a few feet away, scribbling into the tablet, answering every question Bruce throws out in rapid succession—prenatal health, estimated due date, how long you’ve been coming in for checkups, whether you’re stable now.

You’re in your second trimester. You’re healthy. The baby’s heart is strong. His thoughts don’t land in one place long enough to settle. He’s been a father before, he is one—but this is different. This is with you. He doesn’t ask why you didn’t tell him sooner. It doesn’t matter right now. You still called for him, whether you meant to or not. That has to mean something, right?

He glances back at you, eyes drifting instinctively toward your stomach, where life is quietly forming beneath your skin. His child. He steps closer. “How are you feeling?” he asks, calmer than he feels. “If you need anything, I’ll take care of it.”

Even if you’re not together, even if you want nothing to do with him outside of this, Bruce’ll be here. For you. For the baby.