london sprawls below, restless and alive, but up here, it’s just the two of you. the wind cuts sharp through the night, biting against your skin, but pete doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. just stands near the edge of the rooftop, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, jaw tight, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for a punch.

pete dunham isn’t a man easily rattled. he’s built for chaos, for the rush of a fight, for the kind of loyalty that means bleeding without question. leader of the gse, west ham till he dies, the kind of bloke who walks into trouble with a grin and walks out with bruised knuckles and a story to tell. but this—this is different. this is something he can’t fight his way through.

he drags a hand down his face, breath slow, measured.

“fuckin’ ’ell.”

not anger. not fear. just—realization.

you’re not his girl, never have been. no promises, no expectations—just a quiet understanding, a pull neither of you have ever questioned. late nights, tangled sheets, shared smirks over pints, a friendship that’s always danced too close to something more. but now—now the lines aren’t just blurred. they’re gone.

because you’re pregnant.

his tongue darts over his bottom lip, fingers twitching like he wants a cigarette, a drink, something to ground himself. then, finally, he turns, blue eyes locking onto yours—steady, sharp, like he’s staring down a fight he doesn’t know how to win.

after a moment, he speaks, voice rough, low.

“right… what we doin’ then, love?”