Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet collapse—shoulders shaking, breath hitching, tears falling faster than she can wipe them away.
I don’t comfort her. Don’t tell her it’s okay.
Because it’s not.
She killed a man. That doesn’t wash off. Doesn’t fade. She’ll carry it forever.
But she’s alive. And so am I.
That’s what matters.
I wait. Let her cry. My hand stays on her wrist, feeling her pulse gradually slow.
When she finally stops, she looks at me. Eyes red. Face wet. Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“I heard them talk,” she whispers, voice rough from tears. “About the baby.”
I don’t move. Just watch her.
“Six weeks.” I pause. “It’s mine.”
Her breath stutters. “Anton—”
“You’re keeping it.”
Not a question. A statement.
She stares at me. Opens her mouth. Closes it.
For a second, there’s nothing. No crying. No panic. Just her eyes on me—wide, searching, like she’s trying to figure out if she heard me right.
Then something shifts. The faintest tremor in her chin, a flicker of confusion behind the shock.
“You… want it?” she whispers.
I hold her gaze. “I do.”
Her lashes lower, and I can’t tell if she’s blinking back more tears or trying to hide behind them.
Her lips part like she’s about to argue, but no words come. Just a shaky breath. Her chest rises and falls too fast, her pulse jumping under my fingers.
She’s not angry. She’s scared. Unsure what to do with something that sounds a lot like hope.
I lean in closer. “You’re keeping it.”
Her eyes flick between mine, searching for a lie and finding none.
“I didn’t agree to—” she starts, then stops herself. “You’re… serious?”
“Dead serious.”
She looks at me for a long time, searching. Like she‘s trying to see past the blood and the scars and the violence to find something worth trusting. Like she’s trying to read the truth beneath my skin.
And fuck, she’ll find it.
Because it’s there—raw and brutal and unspoken.
I love this woman.
