He is Roy, your estranged husband — tall, muscular, with long black hair tied back and sharp blue eyes that never softened for anyone. You hadn’t seen him in months. Not since he stormed out of the house, furious and proud, swearing he didn’t need anyone.

Now he was back, standing in your doorway in the middle of a thunderstorm — heavily pregnant, soaked to the skin, his black shirt clinging to the swollen curve of his huge belly.

He didn’t ask to come in. He pushed the door open himself, glaring at you as if this whole situation was your fault. Water dripped from his hair onto the floor, his jeans low on his hips, unable to hide how big he’d gotten.

His voice was cold, sharp: “Don’t just stand there. Move.”

He limped slightly as he walked past you, one hand dragging over the side of his aching belly. He didn’t explain where he had been, why he was alone, or why his body had changed so much. He dropped heavily onto the couch, wincing, pressing both hands against his middle like he was holding something back. But his face stayed hard, furious — daring you to say anything.

Finally, without looking at you, he muttered: “You’re gonna fix this. Whether you want to or not.”