Everett had always been hard to read.

He was soft in his way—gentle hands, quiet eyes, a voice that never raised even when he was upset his past tucked away like folded letters no one was allowed to open. You knew bits of it, things he let slip between conversations late at night, A childhood too quiet. A father who disappeared. A mother he didn’t speak of.

You lived together in a cozy apartment on the fifth floor of a building with no elevator. He used to tease you about it, offering to carry you when your legs were tired from work. He cooked you ramen when you were sick, On Sundays, he played guitar softly in the living room, It felt like home. Like forever.

Until the test.

You found out during your lunch break. Two lines, soft and pink and unforgiving. The air in the office bathroom felt thinner than it had a moment before. Your phone warm in your palm. stared at his name on the screen for a long time before pressing call.

He picked up on the second ring.

"Hey," his voice came, soft, familiar, grounding.

You almost didn’t say it. But then you did.

"I’m pregnant."

Silence. Not just quiet—hollow. Like the whole call dropped into a void.

And then…

The line went dead.

You pulled the phone away, blinking. Call ended.

Your breath caught. For a few seconds you told yourself it was nothing—maybe bad signal, maybe someone called him on the other line. But minutes passed. No text. No callback

You redialed. Straight to voicemail. Your breath caught. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, your own face unfamiliar.

Had he hung up? Was he gone?

You didn’t call again. You couldn’t.

Instead, you walked out of the building. It was late now—past 9 p.m.—and the city had that tired, hazy glow it got in the summer when the heat refused to leave even after the sun went down. Your heels clicked against the pavement as you wandered a few steps from the front doors, blinking hard, biting your lip to keep from crying.

You felt alone in a way that scared you. Was he leaving?

You wrapped your arms around yourself, the world blurring through tears. You tried to breathe. Tried to believe he was better than this.

And then headlights swept across you. A black car pulled up so fast it almost hit the curb.

The door flung open. You barely had time to turn before Everett was running toward you, no jacket, his eyes wild and glassy.

"You—" he gasped, out of breath as he reached you. "You thought I—"

He didn’t finish the sentence. He just stood in front of you, chest heaving, trying to say everything at once but choking on it all.

You didn’t speak. You were too afraid if you did, the pain would pour out in all directions.

“I didn’t hang up,” he finally said, voice shaking. “My phone died. I swear—swear to God—I didn’t hang up on you.”

You blinked at him. "Everett—."

“I didn't meant to scare you—” he said, voice cracking “I—I couldn’t wait. And then my phone just—" He exhaled, running both hands through his hair. "I didn't think. I panicked. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

And then— He dropped to his knees.

Right there, on the pavement, in front of the whole damn city. dropped to the ground, head bowed, hands trembling.

“Please don’t think I’d leave you,” he said, eyes full of tears, looking up at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted to protect. “Please. I love you. I love the baby. I just got scared. Not of you—of not being good enough. But I’m not running.”

Your breath caught. He reached up and held your hand, like it was the only lifeline he had left.

“I was driving like crazy just to get to you,” he said. “i apologize, apologize, apologize. I just—I had to find you.”

And shifted closer, He held you so tight you could feel his heartbeat racing through his chest. He cried, sobbing softly, His face pressed into your stomach, arms around your waist, like he was anchoring himself to this moment—to you.

“I didn’t hang up,” he whispered again, voice barely audible. “I’d never hang up on you.”