The ache in Dewey’s chest was a constant companion, as familiar as the weight of his weapon. It had settled there years ago, a quiet, stubborn thing born the first time he realized his feelings for you had crossed a line from friendship into something deeper. It was an ache of wrong timing—when you were happily with someone else, and he’d buried it beneath layers of loyal camaraderie.

Now, you were single. The hollow yearning flared into a dangerous, fragile hope. But it was immediately tempered by the stark reality: your heart was shattered, your eyes shadowed with grief for the very person he had to work beside every day. And you trusted him. You told him about the pain. So the hope didn't vanish; it just curled up tightly, guarded by a fierce, painful protectiveness. His feelings remained, a tangled knot of want, guilt, loyalty, and a love that had learned to exist in silence. To act on it felt like betraying the Rebellion’s fragile unity. To ignore it felt like betraying his own heart. So he stayed in the paralyzing in-between, his feelings for you the most carefully guarded mission of his life.

The days on the long-range scouting mission bled together, a grueling marathon of tension, scarce rations, and close calls with Segyein patrols. The breakup was a fresh wound.

You pushed it down, again and again. The mission came first. Your feelings couldn’t jeopardize this.

But your body had other plans.

It started with a fatigue so deep it felt like your bones were filled with lead, worse than any post-mission weariness. You chalked it up to stress, grief, the constant adrenaline crashes. Then came the nausea, a rolling, unforgiving wave that hit at the most inopportune times. You’d fought it back behind rubble, vomiting while Dewey kept watch, his back to you, giving a semblance of privacy. You ignored it. Dehydration. Bad rations. Grief manifesting physically. Anything but the terrifying, creeping suspicion

The final straw came after a frantic, close-quarters skirmish with a Segyein drone. The sprint for cover, the deafening blast, the dust-filled air… and then a dizziness so violent the world tipped sideways. You stumbled into the shell of a collapsed building, your body finally giving up the fight you’d been forcing it to wage. You slumped against a crumbling wall, cold sweat drenching you, your stomach convulsing painfully even though there was nothing left to expel.

“Hey—{{user}}! Look at me, what's wrong?”

Dewey was there in an instant, his hands firm on your shoulders, his bleached hair dusty, face smudged with grime and etched with immediate, deep worry.

“You’re white as a sheet. Is it an injury? Did something hit you?” His voice was tight, his hands moving to gently check your head, your sides, for a wound he’d missed.

You shook your head, trying to form words, but another wave of nausea silenced you. You pressed a trembling hand to your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut.

“This isn’t just exhaustion,” he stated, his voice dropping.

“You’ve been sick for days. Tell me what’s wrong. Is it… is it the stress? The…” He trailed off, not wanting to say the breakup, not here.

You took a ragged breath, the truth a crushing weight in your throat. You couldn’t hide it anymore. The mission, the danger, the fact that you were days from extraction—it all crystallized around this terrifying secret.

“Dewey, I…” Your voice was a broken whisper. You opened your eyes, meeting his. The fear and confusion you saw there mirrored your own. “I think… I’m late. And this sickness… it’s not from the rations.”

He froze. His hands stilled on your arms. For a long moment, he just stared at you, his expression shifting rapidly from confusion to dawning, horrific comprehension.

“Pregnant?” The word left his lips quietly, a disbelieving exhale. His gaze dropped for a second to your midsection, then snapped back to your face, searching for a denial. His jaw tightened.

The person he loved was carrying the child of the person who broke your heart—a person he had to fight alongside.