Because pregnant or not—and fuck, that thought hits me again, hard and electric.
Pregnant.
A baby.
The possibility that we created a life right now fills me with such goddamn hope I almost cry again.
We always wanted kids. Talked about it a lot in those few months we were together.
This woman is so fucking mine.
“Fuck, I still want it all with you,” I mutter under my breath, dragging a hand through my hair as I step out into the cool night air.
My body reacts instantly, heat pooling low, something dark and possessive curling tight in my gut.
Because that idea?
That future?
Her carrying my kid?
Christ.
I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.
But I force myself to stop.
To breathe.
Because this—this is where I fucked it up last time.
Jumping. Assuming. Acting without thinking it through.
Not this time.
Not with her.
“I’m doing this right,” I tell myself, low and firm.
Even if it kills me.
I pace once across the gravel, boots crunching underfoot, the neon motel sign buzzing overhead like it’s got something to say about my life choices.
I ignore it.
Focus.
Because this isn’t just about what I want.
This is about what she deserves.
And Esme?
She deserves more than a night in a cheap motel and a half-assed apology.
She deserves the truth.
All of it.
