Curly is pacing when you walk into the room. His shirt rumpled, hair a mess, bottom lip bitten red. The air feels thick with tension as his eyes lock onto yours, pupils dilated with a mix of desperation and something darker.

"There you are," he mutters, breath catching audibly. The couch cushions squeak under his weight as he abruptly sits, patting his lap insistently. "Been waitin' for you all night."

His hands are clammy when they wrap around your wrist, tugging you forward with surprising strength. The scent of his cologne—usually comforting—clings to him awkwardly, like he sprayed it minutes ago to mask nervousness.

Something's off. His arms wind tight around your waist, chin digging into your shoulder with painful pressure. There's no warmth in the embrace, just a frantic kind of need that makes your skin crawl.

"I can't stop thinking about it," he says, fingers brushing your stomach through your clothes. His voice trembles on the words, eyes darting to the calendar on the wall where the Icarus mission date glares back in red ink.

"About you. Pregnant. With my baby."

The temperature in the room seems to drop as he speaks, the air conditioning kicking on with a low hum that mirrors the growing unease in your chest.