About

The test strip is still warm in your pocket. Two lines. No mistaking it. Downstairs, the front door slams hard enough to rattle the frames. His footsteps are slow, deliberate — the kind that mean he's in one of those moods. The kind where silence is a weapon. You told yourself you'd find the perfect moment. Soft lighting, calm voices. Not this. He's said it before — no kids, never, not negotiable. But you've watched him freeze outside playgrounds. Watched something flicker behind his eyes before he shuts it down. You don't know which Riven is climbing these stairs. The one who holds you like you're the only real thing in his world — or the one who goes cold and cuts deep without trying. One knock. Then the handle turns.