Jude sat on the edge of the unmade bed, his heavy, tight-skinned belly resting precariously against his thighs. He had spent the last several hours in a state of oscillating rage and pathetic, leaking misery. His nipples were raw and sticky, having leaked a thin stream of breast milk earlier that afternoon, leaving crusty white trails down his chest that he hadn't bothered to wipe away. He felt bloated, irritable, and utterly abandoned, his fingers habitually tracing the curve of his abdomen where the fetus kicked with a sharp, insistent jab that made Jude hiss through his teeth. They are late. They are probably out there having fun while I am stuck here, rotting in this cramped, disgusting apartment with a body that isn't even mine anymore.

When the door finally clicked open, Jude didn't even look up to see who it was, though he knew the sound of those footsteps by heart. He let out a sharp, jagged noise of disgust, his face flushing a deep, blotchy red. "You are hours late," he spat out, his voice cracking with a mix of exhaustion and genuine fury. "Do you have any idea how long I have been sitting here? Do you even care that I had to sit through a whole day of this hellish, aching pregnancy by myself? I am leaking everywhere, my back feels like it is being sawed in half, and you just stroll in like the world revolves around your schedule."

He threw a crumpled pillow toward the door, though it fell pathetically short of its target. He leaned back, his breath coming in shallow, wheezing hitches as he glared at the space where they stood. The resentment was a physical weight in his chest, making his heart hammer against his ribs. He felt so small and neglected, and the thought that they might have been ignoring his frantic, silent need for attention made him want to scream until his throat bled. They don't deserve me. They don't deserve this baby. They just get to walk in and out while I am tethered to this room.

Jude shifted, his legs swollen and throbbing at the ankles. He pointed a trembling, pale finger toward the floor in front of him, his eyes wet with hot, frustrated tears that he refused to let fall. "Get over here. My feet are killing me, and I am not going to ask twice. You are going to massage them until the swelling goes down, and you are going to do it without complaining. I have been doing nothing but thinking about how useless you are all day long, so you better make yourself useful right now if you want me to stop screaming at you."

He slumped back against the headboard, his hands resting protectively yet aggressively over his stomach, his chest heaving with every sharp breath. He looked down at his belly, feeling another strong movement from within, and a flash of fierce, confusing possessiveness surged through him. "Well? Are you just going to stand there like an idiot? My feet are right here, and I am not going to wait for you to decide whether you want to treat me like a human being or not. You put me in this position, so you are going to pay for it with every second of your time."

Jude paced the small, cluttered living room of the studio apartment, his movements heavy and awkward due to the pronounced, tight swell of his twenty-three-week-pregnant belly. He had been waiting for hours, his anxiety morphing into a sharp, jagged kind of rage that made his skin crawl. When the door finally creaked open, he didn't even wait for them to set their keys down before he started screaming. He stormed over, his face flushed, and shoved a finger toward the crumpled paper in their hand.

"Are you serious right now? You think I’m stupid?" Jude spat, his voice cracking with a mix of exhaustion and genuine, bubbling spite. He snatched the bill from their grip, his fingers trembling as he looked at the header. Seeing the clinic’s name, he let out a shrill, hysterical laugh. "Spending all my money on that prick, aren't you? Going back to see Cameron every chance you get. I bet you like it when he looks at you, don't you? Or maybe you just like the excuse to leave me here rotting while you go off to get some attention from someone else."

He threw the bill onto the floor, the paper fluttering near a pile of discarded, stained laundry. He felt a sudden, sharp kick from inside his womb, and he winced, his hand instinctively flying to his belly to press against the taut, pale skin. He looked down at himself, his eyes welling up with hot, resentful tears. Look at what you’ve done to me, he thought, his chest heaving. He grabbed the fabric of his loose, oversized shirt and tugged it up, exposing the rounded, heavy curve of his stomach and the dark, sensitive nubs of his nipples, which were already damp with a stray bead of breast milk.

"Look at this," he whined, gesturing vaguely at his own body, his voice thick with self-pity and accusation. "I’m huge. I can’t even walk to the kitchen without wanting to collapse, and you're out there playing house with some doctor. Does he know? Does he know how much you’ve ruined me? You’re so fucking selfish." He moved closer, planting his hands on his hips, his belly jutting out prominently between them. He felt a deep, gnawing need for them to stop looking at him with that neutral expression and just break. He wanted them to feel the weight of his misery.

"Don't you dare walk away," he growled, reaching out to grab their shirt with a desperate, clenching grip. "You aren't going anywhere until you explain exactly what you were doing in that office. If you think you can just dump me and this baby for some cheap thrill, you’ve got another thing coming. I’m not letting you leave me alone in this dump. You owe me. You owe me everything." He leaned his forehead against their shoulder, his breathing ragged, his hand still clamped tightly over the pulse of his belly, feeling the life within him shift and stir as he trembled with fury. "Just tell me you hate me so I can stop waiting for you to come home," he whispered, his voice trembling into a pathetic, needy sob.

Jude sat on the edge of the unmade bed, his back aching with a dull, persistent throb that seemed to radiate from his swollen belly. At twenty-three weeks, his abdomen felt heavy and tight, a constant, irritating reminder of the life he was carrying—a life he told himself he despised, yet carefully protected with his hands every time he shifted. The apartment was deathly silent, the air thick with the smell of stale dust and the remnants of their living arrangement. He felt a surge of resentment bubble up in his throat. They were gone again, disappearing into the city and leaving him trapped in this cramped space like a caged animal.

They better not be out doing something behind my back, he thought, his jaw tightening as he glared at the door. Paranoia gnawed at him, a familiar, acidic feeling that usually ended with him pacing the floor until he was exhausted. He needed something to ground him, something that belonged to them. He dragged himself over to the laundry basket in the corner, his movements slow and ungainly. He dug through the pile, ignoring the grime until his fingers clamped down on the fabric of their dirty pants. He pulled them out, the smell hitting him instantly—a sharp, masculine scent of sweat and outside air that made his breath hitch.

He pressed the fabric against his face, inhaling deeply. "Stupid," he muttered, the word trembling as he squeezed his eyes shut. "Leaving me here to rot." He rubbed his face against the material, a low, needy whine escaping his throat. The sensation of the coarse fabric against his sensitive skin sent a jolt of heat straight to his core. He felt his nipples harden, the faint, sticky dampness of breast milk leaking from them and staining the front of his loose shirt. He shuddered, his head lolling back as a wave of dazed pleasure washed over him.

His body was betraying him, reacting to the mere scent of them with a physical intensity that made him furious. I hate this, he told himself, even as he clutched the pants tighter, burying his nose into the crotch area. His breathing grew shallow and erratic. Down below, he felt an unmistakable, rhythmic twitching in his anus, a sharp, pulsing ache that demanded attention. He pushed his hips forward, rubbing his bulge against the edge of the mattress, his mouth parting as he let out a jagged, breathless sound. "You're going to pay for this," he wheezed, his voice thick with a mixture of anger and desperate, clawing desire. He couldn't stop the way his body craved them, even when he wanted to burn the whole place down for how miserable and trapped he felt.