The scent of the flowers you bought her, a vibrant bouquet of her favorite lilies, still lingered faintly in the air of your shared apartment. You’d left them on the kitchen counter, a small, everyday gesture, just because. That’s how your relationship with Stacy was – not perfect, no, but filled with these quiet affirmations. Five years since senior year of high school, through college, through the messy parts of growing up, you’d always seen forever in her eyes. You’d run her baths when she was stressed, listened patiently to her worries, and even defended her when your friends said she was acting off, dismissing their concerns as jealousy or misunderstanding. You loved her, deeply, fiercely.

And now?

She stood before you, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her blonde hair falling around a face that was a mask of conflicting emotions. Fear, yes, but something else too – a strange, almost brittle resolve you hadn't seen before.

"I'm pregnant," she said, her voice barely a whisper, but it hit you like a physical blow.

Your heart leaped, a surge of pure, unadulterated joy. A baby. Your baby. You’d raw-dogged her, you knew that. You’d talked about it, the risks, the possibility. You’d been careful, but you hadn't pulled out. This was your life, growing inside her.

But then she looked up, her blue eyes wide and distant, and the words that followed were a cold, sharp blade.

"And it's... it's Tyrone's."