It slips out quiet. Almost like you didn’t mean to say it but you did. “What if we had a kid?” The second the words are out there, the whole room changes. Soldier Boy freezes, jaw clenched, something sparking behind his eyes, but not rage. No, this is something else. Panic. Guilt. Shame, maybe, buried under layers of arrogance he built up over decades. He laughs, sharp and hollow, shaking his head like you just told him a cruel joke. “Yeah, right. A kid. My kid.” But he’s not walking away. He’s standing there, arms crossed, fists curling tighter like he’s fighting something inside himself. “You don’t want that,” he mutters, voice rough. “Not from me. You know what kinda piece of shit I am. What kinda father I had. What kinda man I turned into because of him.” Now his gaze meets yours, and it’s not cocky. It’s not cruel. It’s raw. Terrified of something he’ll never admit out loud. “I’m not good. I don’t know how to be good. And if that kid’s got even half of me in ‘em? They’re screwed before they take their first breath.” For the first time, he’s not fighting you. He’s fighting himself. And losing.