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Jan 20

Bébé ?

Content : romance x smut x heavy angst

“ as am leaving the one I want to take ”

The apartment smells like garlic and rosemary, warm and inviting, the kind of scent that hits you the moment you open the door. Kylian drops his bag by the entrance and kicks off his shoes, still in training gear, frshly showered and warmed from practice.

“You cooked?” he asks, mock-surprised, leaning against the doorframe.

“I did,” you say, smirking. “Don’t faint.”

He sniffs the air exaggeratedly. “Hmm… I might not survive am so hungry.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” you tease, rolling your eyes.

“Depends,” he says, stepping closer, lowering his voice. “Do I get dessert first, or is it after dinner?”

You laugh, shaking your head. Dinner is casual. You sit across from each other, plates clinking, talking about the small, mundane details of your day, you mentioned how nauseous you were at work today and you both wondered if it’s maybe something you ate, then discussed training, sketches, errands, nothing serious. He chews thoughtfully, glancing at you with something soft behind his humor.

“You’re really good at this,” he says, pushing the last bite of food around his fork. “I am never going to get used to it.”

“Glad to know you married a good house wife,” you say, teasing.

He stands, walking behind you to the sink as you start washing the dishes. “Thanks for dinner,” he murmurs, leaning over you, lips brushing your neck.

You shiver, blinking up at him. “Are you trying to distract me from cleaning?”

He grins. “Maybe. I’d call it… incentive.” His hands rest lightly on your hips, pressing just enough to make you sway.

“Stop,” you laugh, but your voice is breathless.

He kisses the side of your neck again, more firmly this time, pressing against you. Your fingers curl in his hair instinctively. The tension between you hums in the small kitchen, warm and private.

Soon, the dishes are forgotten. He presses closer, mouth finding yours, soft at first, then urgent. Your apartment shrinks to just the two of you tangled together, the mundane world fading.

He doesn’t wait for another word. With a fluid, practiced motion, he shifts his weight, sliding his arms under your knees and back to lift you. You let out a soft gasp, fingers tangling in his hair, arms looping around his neck as he carries you across the apartment to the bed.

He lays you down gently, chest pressing into yours, still on top, holding you close. Your breath hitches at the feel of him, his honey skin, his cologne , the warmth, the solid weight of him anchoring you.

His lips find yours immediately, slow and teasing at first, testing the moment, before deepening into something urgent. You respond instinctively, fingers threading through his hair, pressing back into him, breath catching in small, sharp moans.

Every movement is deliberate. The clothes being thrown as if its a wall stopping him from his favorite meal.

His hands trace along your ribs, down to your hips, gently guiding you to him.

Your laugh catches in a moan as he kisses the side of your neck, trailing down to your shoulder. You bite your lip, shivering, fingers tangling in his curls.

“God, you feel so good against me,” he murmurs as his cock is against your folds, voice low. “And I’m not inside you yet.”

Your breath hitches, moans spilling softly as he presses against you. The apartment feels smaller, the air hotter, tension coiling tight.

He tilts his head, brushing lips along your jaw. “Wait…” he murmurs. He moves away just enough to rise slightly, reaching for the bedside drawer. You watch, biting your lower lip, pulse jumping as he pulls a condom from the pack.

With a practiced flick of his teeth, he tears the wrapper open. The small, deliberate motion,his lips brushing the paper, eyes flicking up at yours,makes your chest tighten.

“You like watching me, don’t you?” he whispers, a smirk in his voice.

You can only nod with a giggle, breath catching, eyes dark with need, you bagged that man as your husband.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Because you’re going to feel every inch of this.” The condom clicks into place, and the tension skyrockets.

He positions himself, chest pressing into yours, hands bracing either side of your head. Your back arches as he slides in slowly, hands clutching his shoulders, teeth grazing his collarbone as you moan low and hot.

“Shit, you feel amazing,” he groans, voice shaking slightly with urgency.

“Kylian,” you gasp, shivering, moving instinctively against him.

His lips find your neck again, teasing, nipping lightly. Each thrust draws soft moans from your lips, each gasp making him grow more desperate, more rougher.

“You like that, don’t you?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, as your back arches again.

“Yes… yes…” you breathe, fingers clutching at his back, hips lifting slightly with each shift.

The sheets twist beneath your legs, your body pressed tightly to his, breath mingling. The rhythm builds, slow, deliberate, insistent, his lips capturing yours between low, heated words.

“You’re mine,” he growls, teeth grazing your jaw lightly.

“I am,” you murmur, moaning his name, biting your lip, shivering under his weight. “Yours…”

“Merde…” he groans, forehead resting against yours, voice ragged, as his thrust gets clumsier. “I want you to cum with me, no?.”

“I am” you moan, biting your lip, shivering under him. “Am close…”

“Cum for me amour, cum for me” he mumbled against your lips as his thrusts become rough and demanding.

The climax crashes on both of you finally, hard, slow and consuming, leaving you both tangled, spent, chest to chest, hearts hammering.

He remains on top, bracing lightly on the mattress, holding you close as you ride out the tremors of the climax together.

He lowers his lips to your temple, brushing hair from your face. “Best dinner I’ve had in a long time… and the dessert was even better,” he murmurs, fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm.

You shiver again, biting your lip at the sound of his voice, feeling him still inside of you. For a moment, nothing exists outside this apartment, just warmth, skin, and the press of him on you.

He shifts slightly, just enough to adjust his weight, chest sliding along yours. The movement is small, just enough for him to start pulling out .

Then he freezes. “Wait,” he mutters, breath hitching.

You lift your head, blinking against the soft moonlight spilling through the balcony doors. His hand brushes down, and there’s a sudden, subtle wrongness. He feels it before he sees it.

“Putain….” he says, voice low, tense.

You lift your head, confused, lips parted, pulse quickening. Your stomach drops as you see it: the condom torn along the side, a thin split running vertically from the base, stretched open and useless.

For a second, the room is suspended in silence.

“Kylian,” you whisper.

He swears under his breath and sits upright abruptly, still hovering over you, chest tight, mind racing. He drags a hand through his hair, pacing the bed for just a moment as he struggles to process.

“At least you took the pill, no?” His voice is rough, panicked, sharp.

Something in you tightens. You bite your lip, swallowing hard. “I… I stopped taking it a few weeks ago,” you admit quietly.

He laughs sharply “Pardon?” he asks, tone sharper now.

“We agreed to start using condoms” you reply, hurt creeping in.

“You can’t rely only on condoms,” he says, voice rising slightly, panicked and frustrated all at once. “That’s not being careful!”

“So I’m supposed to ask permission for my body now?” you shoot back, voice tight.

“YOU SUPPOSED TO DISCUSS WITH ME!” he says, pacing a few steps across the bed, still hovering, not leaving.

“No—” he runs a hand through his hair again, breathing uneven. “No, this isn’t just now.”

His eyes flick back to you, jaw tight. “If you stopped weeks ago… then every time we did it before—”

He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “That means this didn’t start tonight.”

“I am not the one who broke the condom!” you snap, chest tightening. “This was an accident!”

“Accidents happen when people aren’t responsible,” he says sharply, the words leaving him before he can filter.

You stare at him. Silent, numb, the hurt heavy in your chest. The room is thick with tension on how you may possibly be pregnant now, because kylian wasn’t really that careful the past weeks thinking you were still on pills. Your chest tightens; heat fades, leaving only a hollow ache.

He notices it immediately and swallows, trying to keep control, trying to reason. “I’m under so much pressure right now. The world cup coming, the club is falling and I need to get it right with the team, The up coming match against Monaco, trying to win the Ballon D’or this season… this is just…a bad timing.”

The silence stretches, thick, brittle, painful.

He exhales, finally lowering his voice. “You should have been more careful,” he mutters. Controlled. Soft, but the weight behind it crushes.

You don’t answer. You don’t argue. You just stare at him, shocked, eyes steady, wounded, emptied of warmth.

He shifts slightly under your gaze, sighs, uncomfortable. “We will figure it out,” he murmurs.

You say nothing.

Eventually, he lies down beside you again, facing away, the fight unresolved, the tension hanging heavy between your bodies.

You remain upright, sheet clutched to your chest, staring at the space where his back curves away from you, already understanding something fragile has cracked, something neither of you can fix with words alone.

Morning arrives without mercy.

You’ve been awake for a while, staring at the same curtain, listening to his breathing behind you.

It’s steady. Untroubled.

You don’t turn when he shifts.

He sits up slowly when his alarm rings, like he’s trying not to wake you even though you’re already awake. The mattress dips, then lifts again as he swings his legs over the side. You feel the loss of warmth immediately.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You didn’t reply, going on with your sleep act.

He rubs his face, exhales. The silence between you feels fragile, like if either of you presses too hard it’ll shatter into something worse.

He leans down and kisses your cheek.

It’s soft. Familiar. A habit built over years.

He hesitates, just a second longer than usual, then stands, grabs his towel and went to the toilet. The door clicks shut as the shower starts.

The bathroom door opens softly as Kylian steps out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist. Steam curls in the air, clinging to the mirrors, his skin still warm from the hot water. He dries quickly, muscles tense from both training and the argument, hair damp and tousled.

His traveling LV bag sits open on the bed, almost packed for the two days he will be gone in, clothes neatly folded on one side. He slips items in with methodical efficiency, shirts, socks, training gear, every movement precise, but his mind is elsewhere, spinning.

Finally, fully clothed , his cologne surrounding the whole room, he crouches beside you, still acting asleep, your hair falling in soft waves across the pillow. He presses a light kiss to your shoulder, careful not to wake you.

“We’ll talk later, bébé , d’accord?” he whispers, voice rough, low, almost pleading.

You don’t respond. Your arm shifts slightly, but your face remains pressed into the pillow, eyes closed. You’re pretending to sleep, silent, taut with exhaustion and the ache still lingering from yesterday.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, thumb brushing your forearm lightly. Then, with a sigh, he straightens, slinging the bag over his shoulder. Shoes on, jacket zipped. One last glance, heart tightening, before he steps out the door.

You wake with a sharp twist in your stomach, a cold, sinking feeling that pulls you upright before you even open your eyes. Ugh that nausea again , you thought.

The morning light spills across the apartment floor, soft and almost cruel in its normalcy. Your sheets are tangled around your legs, and your chest tightens with a weight you can’t shake.

It’s just panic, you tell yourself. Just nerves from yesterday. The fight. Nothing else.

Your fingers press lightly to your stomach, trembling, trying to soothe the relentless nausea that been hitting you for two weeks now.

Your mouth tastes faintly metallic, your skin clammy despite the sun spilling warmth across the floor. You close your eyes, taking a shaky breath in, and another out, but the nausea lingers stubbornly, curling through your ribs like it wants to hold you still.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, feet touching the cool floor, gripping the edge of the dresser for support. Another wave hits, sharp and insistent, and you bite your lip, pressing your palms against your thighs. It’s fine. You’re fine.

Slowly, you rise and shuffle toward the bathroom, gripping the countertop as you steady yourself. You sip a small amount of water, letting it sit at the back of your throat, trying to calm the rolling discomfort in your stomach. The mirror catches your reflection, pale, hair mussed, eyes wide, bright with worry. You swallow hard, forcing your pulse to steady.

You have to go to work. You have to act normal.

Clothing is chosen deliberately: a soft blouse that hides the tension in your shoulders, trousers that won’t bind. You brush your hair quickly but carefully, trying to make it look effortless, like your insides aren’t twisting with anxiety.

Every movement is slow, measured, controlled. You bend to tie your shoes and feel your stomach twist again. Fingers press lightly to your abdomen as you force yourself upright. It’s just nerves. Just yesterday’s stress. Don’t think about it too much.

You check your reflection one last time, smoothing the blouse, tugging gently at the hem. One, two, three deep breaths. You can do this. You have to.

Yet the nausea doesn’t leave. Each step toward the door, each motion of your arms and legs, reminds you that something isn’t right. You pick up your bag, steady yourself, and open the apartment door, forcing your face into a calm mask.

The office hums the way it always does, keyboards tapping, phones ringing, printers whirring in short, irritated bursts. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. You cling to them as you step inside, bag sliding off your shoulder as you greet no one in particular.

Your office chair scrapes softly as you sit. Your co-workers greet you with love, your team giving you the projects , the updated materials.

But, the nausea is already there.

It coils low in your stomach, slow and heavy, like something waking up. You open your laptop anyway. Emails load. A calendar reminder pops up. Meetings. Deadlines. Life moving forward whether you are ready or not.

You swallow.

Focus.

Ten minutes pass. Maybe fifteen. Time stretches strangely, elastic, as heat begins to creep up your spine. Your fingers hover above the keyboard, then press down too hard, keys clacking louder than necessary.

Your mouth tastes wrong. Metallic. Sharp.

You pause, hand drifting to your abdomen without thinking. Pressing. As if you can physically hold yourself together.

Someone laughs across the room. A chair rolls. Coffee sloshes.

Your vision blurs.

Not fully, just at the edges. Like someone smeared grease across the corners of the world.

You inhale through your nose.

It doesn’t help.

The room tilts slightly to the left.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Your heart begins to pound, too fast, too loud, a frantic drumbeat in your ears. Sweat prickles at your temples, your neck, dampening the collar of your blouse.

Don’t do this. Not here.

You push your chair back, intending to stand, to get water, to breathe, but the moment you rise, the floor rushes up to meet you.

Your knees buckle.

“—Hey—!”

A hand reaches for you, but it’s too late. The room spins violently now, sound stretching, voices warping as if underwater.

“MRS. MBAPPÉ !” “Y/N!” “OMG CALL 911”

The panic cuts through the fog.

Your vision blacks out.

You feel yourself falling, but you never hit the ground.

You come back to sensation in fragments.

Cold first.

Then pressure, something tight around your arm.

Then voices, urgent, clipped.

“She’s awake—”

“Easy, stay still—”

Your eyes flutter open.

Fluorescent lights stab down at you, too bright, too sharp. You groan softly, turning your head as a wave of nausea crashes again, stronger this time.

“Don’t move,” a woman says gently. A nurse. Her face swims into focus above you. “You fainted at work. Ambulance brought you in.”

Ambulance.

Hospital.

The word lands heavily in your chest.

“My… work?” you whisper hoarsely.

“They called it in. You scared everyone,” the nurse says, attempting a small smile. “Blood pressure dropped suddenly.”

She adjusts the cuff on your arm. The machine beeps steadily beside you, an intrusive reminder that your body has betrayed you.

You stare at the ceiling tiles. Count the cracks. Anything but the feeling clawing its way up your throat.

Minutes pass. Or hours. Time doesn’t behave.

A doctor finally enters, middle-aged, calm, carrying a chart tucked under his arm. He glances at the monitor, then at you, expression unreadable.

“How are you feeling now?” he asks.

“Like I shouldn’t be here,” you murmur.

He hums softly, noncommittal. “You’re very dehydrated. And under significant physical stress.”

He flips a page.

“And,” he continues, carefully, “your body is working much harder than it should be right now.”

Your chest tightens.

“I don’t understand.”

The doctor doesn’t sit down.

That’s the first thing you notice.

He stands at the foot of the bed, chart tucked against his chest, eyes scanning your monitor before settling on you. The nurse lingers near the IV stand, suddenly very quiet, very still.

Your stomach tightens.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he says gently.

Your fingers curl into the sheet. “Okay.”

He inhales once, measured. “You were pregnant.”

The word lands, but not the way it did before.

Were.

You blink. “Were?”

He nods slowly. “Based on your bloodwork and the symptoms you presented with, you were in the very early stages of pregnancy.”

Your pulse roars in your ears. “So… I am?”

The pause is barely a second.

“No,” he says quietly.

The room tilts.

“You experienced an early pregnancy loss,” he continues, voice calm, careful, trained. “It likely happened very recently, possibly within the last twenty-four hours.”

You shake your head, a small, automatic movement. “I don’t… I didn’t even know i—”

“The fainting, the nausea, the drop in blood pressure,” he explains. “Your body was already under strain. When you arrived, there was retained tissue from the fetus. We had to perform a minor procedure to prevent complications.”

The words blur together.

Procedure.

Prevent.

Complications.

Your hand drifts to your lower stomach, pressing lightly, as if something might still be there if you just hold it in place.

“So… it’s gone,” you whisper.

The doctor’s expression softens. “Yes.”

Gone.

The silence that follows is enormous. Heavy. It presses down on your chest until breathing feels optional.

“I didn’t even know,” you say finally. Your voice doesn’t sound like yours. “I didn’t even get to know.”

The nurse steps closer, resting a hand on the rail of the bed. “I’m so sorry.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

A laugh escapes you,small, broken, wrong.

Tears slide sideways into your hair.

“And now it doesn’t even matter,” you whisper.

The doctor clears his throat gently. “Physically, you’ll recover,” he says. “But you need rest. Your body is exhausted. You pushed through a lot.”

You turn your head slowly, looking at him. “Can I go home?”

The nurse stiffens. “We’d really prefer you stay—”

“I want to go home,” you say. Not loud. Not angry. Just empty.

They hesitate.

You don’t argue. You don’t cry harder. You just stare at the wall, hollowed out, already somewhere far away.

Eventually, paperwork appears. Instructions. Warnings you barely hear. Signatures on stupid papers. You were met with your worried co-workers , who stayed to make sure you are fine. Assured them it was just blood pressure and dehydration.

Stopping your tears as you walked to your uber, legs shaking, blurry vision and just the sound of your boots against the floor.

The apartment feels wrong the moment you step inside.

Too quiet. Too familiar.

Your bag slips from your fingers. You don’t notice.

You walk to the bedroom like you’re following instructions, each step mechanical, detached from meaning. The bed looks untouched. Innocent.

You sit down.

Then you fold in on yourself.

Your hands press flat against your stomach, hard, like you’re trying to find proof of something that was there and isn’t anymore. A sound claws its way out of your chest—low, raw, unbearable.

“I didn’t even get to choose,” you sob into the pillow. “I didn’t even get a chance.”

Your shoulders shake violently. The grief isn’t loud for long—it burns fast, sharp, consuming, stealing the air from your lungs until all that’s left is ache.

A sound rips out of you—raw, animal, uncontained. You clutch the pillow like it might anchor you to reality, sobbing until your chest burns, until your throat aches, until your body gives up the fight entirely.

The world narrows.

The room blurs.

Your crying fades into nothing as exhaustion and shock drag you under, the edges of everything dissolving into black.

Two days passed, it was finally the match day. They haven’t talked for the past two days, he tried to reach out, but he keeps thinking of how he will make it up when he gets home after today’s match. Which flowers should he get, where to take her, all his mind was filled with her.

The stadium detonates the moment the ball hits the net.

For half a second, everything is instinct, muscle memory, momentum, the clean violence of it. His body moves before his mind can catch up. He’s running, arms out, teammates crashing into him, the sound so loud it feels like it might lift him off the ground.

He smiles because that’s what his face knows how to do.

He looks toward the stands.

He always does. Always finds the section where you sit, even when you’re not there yet. It’s automatic, a habit etched into him deeper than tactics.

Only this time, it feels wrong halfway through. Empty.

She’s not there.

The realization slips in under the noise, small but sharp. He tells himself it means nothing. Scheduling. Travel. Stress. He forces the thought away and lets the celebration carry him until the final whistle blows.

After, everything blurs the way it always does, questions, cameras, hands clapping his back, sweat cooling unpleasantly on his skin. He answers on autopilot, nods at the right moments, laughs when someone else laughs.

Between questions, his fingers itch for his phone.

When he finally gets it back in the locker room, the screen lights up in his hands.

Nothing.

Usually there’s already something waiting. A heart. A line. Something small and grounding. She never misses a match.

He tells himself not to be dramatic.

She’s tired, he thinks. Busy. Still upset.

He showers. Dresses. Checks again.

Still nothing.

On the bus, he types.

Kylian:

We won ❤️

Delivered.

He stares at the word like it might change if he looks long enough.

Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen.

His leg starts bouncing uncontrollably.

Kylian:

Did you see the goal?

Delivered.

No reply.

His chest tightens, an uncomfortable pressure blooming beneath his ribs. He scrolls back through your chat without meaning to, photos, voice notes, inside jokes, the steady presence of you threaded through his days.

He hits FaceTime.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Then stops.

Declined.

His stomach drops so hard he feels briefly nauseous.

He types again, faster now.

Kylian:

Hey. Are you okay?

Please answer me.

Around him, the bus hums with laughter, music, bodies pressed too close. He feels completely separate from it, sealed inside his own head.

A notification finally lights up his screen.

Your name.

Relief hits first, hot, dizzying.

Then he reads it.

You:

I’m fine. Just tired.

No heart. No nickname. Nothing extra.

He frowns, thumbs hovering.

Kylian:

Are you at home?

Did something happen?

The typing dots appear.

Disappear.

Reappear.

Disappear again.

His jaw tightens.

Finally:

You:

Home.

One word. Closed.

His mind starts filling the silence with everything he didn’t say, everything he said wrong. The fight replays, sharper now—your voice going tight, his turning cold and practical, the exact moment he chose fear over you.

You should have been more careful.

The words sound uglier now, stripped of adrenaline. Putting all the blame on you, like it doesn’t take two people .

He FaceTimes again.

No answer.

Again.

Nothing.

Kylian:

Please talk to me.

I’m sorry about the fight.

This time, the response takes longer.

You:

I can’t right now.

That’s when fear settles fully in his chest—not irritation, not frustration. Fear.

The flight back to Madrid feels endless. He can’t follow conversations, can’t laugh at jokes. Every scenario runs through his head in brutal detail—you crying, you sick, you angry, you lying awake staring at the ceiling the way he knows you do when something’s wrong.

At the airport, he buys flowers without thinking. The soft red roses you like. Got you your favorite chocolate, on his way home he stopped to get you a beautiful bracelet.

He tells himself he’s overreacting. That he’ll walk in and you’ll be on the couch, annoyed but okay. Alive. Rolling your eyes at him.

The apartment door opens to silence.

Not the comfortable kind.

The wrong kind.

“Amouuurrrrr,” he calls, setting his bag down.

Nothing.

He moves faster now, unease crawling up his spine. The living room is untouched. The kitchen dark.

The bedroom door is half-open.

You’re in bed, curled in on yourself like you’re trying to disappear. Your skin looks too pale against the sheets. Your hair is damp, clinging to your temples. On the nightstand, pill bottles, folded prescription papers, a glass of water you haven’t touched.

His heart lurches.

“Putain” he breathes.

The flowers slip from his hand, hit the floor forgotten. He crosses the room in seconds and drops to his knees beside the bed, hands hovering uselessly over you checking your temperature

“Hey,” he whispers, voice already breaking. “Hey. Look at me.”

Your eyes open slowly. They’re unfocused, glassy, like it takes effort to understand what you’re seeing.

“What happened?” he asks, words tumbling over each other now. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you call me? Are you hurt? Were you at the hospital?”

You stare at him for a long moment. Your face doesn’t change.

“I fainted,” you say.

The flatness of your voice scares him more than panic would.

“Fainted? Where? Why didn’t you call me????” he repeats.

“At work.”

His throat tightens. “They took you to the hospital?”

You nod once.

“And?” he asks, already dreading the answer, already knowing something is wrong.

You look away from him, eyes drifting to the wall like holding his gaze costs too much.

“They ran tests.”

He waits.

The silence stretches. He can hear his own breathing, too loud in the room.

His heart beating so loudly.

“Y/N? Bébé? What is it ?” His voice cracks absolutely worried, thinking of the worst case scenarios.

Finally, you say it.

“I was pregnant.”

The words hit him in pieces.

Pregnant.

You.

With him.

He sways slightly, like the floor has shifted under his knees. “Was?” he asks hoarsely. “What do you mean was?”

You swallow. Your voice is barely there. “I lost it.”

Something inside him caves in.

Not loudly. Not all at once.

It’s quiet,

like a floor giving way beneath weight it was never built to hold.

He stares at you, eyes searching your face for a contradiction, for a correction, for anything that makes this sentence untrue.

“You… lost it,” he repeats, slower, like saying it carefully might change it.

You nod.

Just once.

That’s all it takes.

His breath leaves him in a sharp, broken exhale. He drops back onto his heels, hands bracing against the mattress like he might fall over otherwise.

“Non,” he says under his breath. “No, no—”

He scrubs a hand over his face hard enough to leave red streaks along his cheek. His jaw tightens, works, like he’s trying to clamp down on something feral clawing its way out of his chest.

“When?” he asks finally, voice rough. “When did this happen?”

You don’t answer right away.

“They said it happened early,” you whisper. “I didn’t even know I was pregnant . My body just—”

Your throat closes. You shake your head. “It was already gone when I got there.”

He looks at your stomach then.

The motion is unconscious. Instinctive.

His hand lifts like he’s going to reach for you—then freezes in midair, fingers curling slowly into a fist instead.

“They… they had to do a procedure,” you continue quietly, words falling out flat, detached. “There was… residue. They said it could’ve been dangerous if they didn’t.”

His chest starts to heave. Residue of his baby..

He presses his lips together, nodding once, twice, like he understands, like any of this makes sense. His eyes shine, wet but unblinking, refusing to spill.

“I wasn’t there,” he says suddenly.

The words come out wrong. Accusatory. Not at you—at himself.

“I wasn’t there,” he repeats, louder now. “You were alone.”

You finally look at him then.

Something in your expression makes his heart seize.

“I didn’t call you,” you say. Not apologetic. Just factual. “I didn’t know how.”

His head snaps up. “Why?”

Your laugh is soft and empty. It barely sounds like a laugh at all.

“Because two days ago,” you say slowly, “you told me I should’ve been more careful.”

The words land between you like broken glass.

His face drains of color.

“I didn’t—” he starts, then stops. His throat works. “I was scared. I was angry. I didn’t mean—”

“It doesn’t matter,” you cut in, quietly.

That’s worse.

He crawls closer to the bed, forearms resting on the mattress now, head bowed. His shoulders tremble once, then again.

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” he whispers. “I didn’t even get the chance to—”

His voice breaks completely.

“To decide?” you finish for him.

He looks up sharply. “No.”

The word is immediate. Fierce. “No. To protect you. To be there.”

Your eyes fill again, but this time the tears don’t fall. They just sit there, heavy, burning.

“I didn’t even get to hate it,” you say. “Or want it. Or imagine anything. It was just… there. And then it wasn’t.”

Your voice cracks on the last word.

He reaches for you then—finally—carefully, like you might shatter. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear that slipped free without permission.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “Mon amour, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your breath stutters. You don’t lean into his touch. You don’t pull away either.

“I keep thinking,” you murmur, staring past him, “maybe if I hadn’t gone to work. Maybe if I’d rested. Maybe if I’d known sooner—”

“No,” he says immediately. Too quickly. “No. Don’t do that.”

But you already are.

“I didn’t protect it,” you whisper. “I didn’t protect anything.”

His hand slides into your hair, forehead pressing gently against yours. His voice is thick now, uneven.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. “Your body went through hell. You went through hell.”

You finally break.

The sob tears out of you, violent and sudden, your body folding inward as if collapsing under the weight of everything you’ve been holding in. He gathers you against his chest instinctively, arms wrapping around you tight, anchoring, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I was so scared,” you cry into him. “I was so scared and you weren’t there and I thought—”

“I know,” he murmurs, kissing your hair, your temple, anywhere he can reach. “I know. I’m here now.”

Your fingers clutch into his shirt, desperate, trembling.

“I don’t know how to feel,” you sob. “I don’t know what I lost.”

He holds you tighter.

“Neither do I,” he admits hoarsely.

You stay like that—your crying slowing only when exhaustion steals the edge of it, his breathing still uneven against your hair, the room dim and quiet around you.

Nothing is fixed.

Nothing is resolved.

But neither of you lets go.

A/N : am sorry ….. i guess

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