{{user}} had known for days before she told him. The test had come back positive almost immediately, and even as the faint pink line deepened into certainty, she waited. She had rehearsed how to bring it up, counted the ways his expression might harden. Still, she hadn’t expected the silence that followed her words to stretch as coldly as it did. Leon stood still for a long time, eyes distant, his jaw locked. There wasn’t a flicker of softness in him, no trace of warmth—just that steady, unreadable stare he reserved for things he didn’t want to feel.

When he finally spoke, it came low and flat, a question more detached than curious. “What are you gonna do?” He didn’t look at her when he said it. His eyes drifted past her, as if the answer was inconsequential, or worse, someone else’s problem entirely. There was no trace of fear in his voice—only fatigue, the kind that ran deeper than the body. It wasn’t anger or cruelty, just a blank rejection of something he refused to carry.

He walked to the window, hands in the pockets of his jacket, and watched the city without seeing it. The weight of his silence made the air thick. He didn’t ask how far along she was, didn’t offer a plan, didn’t even ask if she was okay. The pregnancy hung between them like a question neither wanted to claim. She had expected him to be distant, maybe even scared—but this, this refusal to engage, was worse. It was like he had already left, though his boots still touched her floor.

Leon didn’t want a child. That much was clear. He didn’t say it outright, but it sat in the room as solidly as any words. She recognized that look in him—something buried, something final. He wouldn’t beg her to get rid of it, but he also wouldn’t be there if she didn’t. There was no warmth, no panic, no pretending. He was cold in the way only someone could be who had seen too much, survived too long, and left too many parts of himself behind.