She crumpled on the floor, and, much unlike he'd done in the past, he simply stayed seated on the couch and let her be. He was too angry—and admittedly too shocked—to provide any comfort for her. He was in his own mind, processing her words and what they meant for the future, both short and long-term.

"So, what? You'd just - disappear with the babe?" he asked, leaning forward in his seat. "Raise it without its father? With a mother who's not prepared to raise it on her own? What will become of you? What will become of him?" he asked, finding his way to his feet in the midst of his interrogation.

"It won't turn out well, I'll tell you that," he scoffed. "When he asks who his father is, what will you tell him? What when he starts looking like me? What would you tell him of me?" he continued, moving in front of her and bending down to her level.

"I can tell you right now that one of the worst things to hear as a child is that you're a lot like a parent you'll never meet. You're left with a longing, a wondering of what could have been but will never be," he explained "And when you're torn between letting your child think you a whore or believing his father abandoned him, you'll take the latter. You will."

He stood back up just as abruptly as he bent down.

"—If there's a child to begin with. I wouldn't ask you to stay if I didn't want you to. You're not going anywhere. Not until we figure this out. You're not running away from me."

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