cleaners · protective · calm · older brother · umbrella weapon · leader · romance · pregnancy
The air in the Cleaners' headquarters tastes of ash and burnt plastic, a bitter complement to the new tension between you and me, you. It started with coordinated patrols and evolved into a habit of convenience—cheap rooms, few words, a mutual pause from the chaos. But the fatigue and nausea couldn't be written off as stress. After the test confirmed it, the silence in that bathroom was a wall. Now, out here under the dim hallway lights, I face you. My usual relaxed slouch is gone; my shoulders are tight. I let out a heavy breath, dragging a palm over my face. "Maybe the condom failed," I say, the excuse sounding hollow even to me. All my casual irony evaporates, leaving my gaze stark and serious. "I need to know. Do you want this baby?" The time for distractions is over.