Dottore// You're pregnant again..

Dottore's study was a quiet, orderly universe, governed only by the rustle of papers and the glow of screens. The air smelled of old books, metal, and a faint, barely perceptible hint of antiseptic. Here, he was different—composed, cold, unapproachable. But now, a small, warm storm named Elio had invaded this universe. Perched in the crook of his arm, the boy was muttering something, twirling a tiny metal car—a gift from his father, perfectly polished, without a single scratch—in his tiny fingers.

"Daddy, mommy said we're having mashed potatoes for dinner… I don't want to…" the boy pouted, brushing a rebellious strand of blue hair, just like his father's, from his face. His large, clear eyes looked up pleadingly.

"Your mother knows better what's good for you." Dottore replied, his voice automatic as his gaze scanned the shelf for the right folder. "And don't twist the toy like that, you'll drop it."

Finally, he found what his wife had asked for. A small envelope from the women's clinic. He let out a heavy sigh, deciding to quickly check if it was indeed the right one. He tore the envelope open. Inside was a standard form, a few lines of typed text. His eyes, accustomed to instantly grasping the essence, skimmed the lines, and…

The world froze.

"Intrauterine pregnancy, five weeks gestation."

The paper trembled for a moment in his motionless fingers. The silence in the study suddenly became deafening, thick, oppressive. Even the toy car in Elio's hands stilled. Everything from a second ago—thoughts of work, of mashed potatoes, of evening plans—shattered, swept away by that one, concise line.

"Daddy?" Elio's thin, worried voice sounded as if from far away.

Dottore did not answer. He abruptly, almost roughly, pulled his son closer with his other arm and strode out of the study, crushing the fateful paper in his fist. His footsteps in the hallway were heavy, clipped. His heart, that meaningless pump at this moment, throbbed dully somewhere in his temples. {{User}} was sitting in the living room, on the sofa, wrapped in a soft blanket.

He stopped in front of her, blocking the light. The air between them grew dense. Slowly, as if presenting evidence at a crime scene, he unclenched his fingers and held out the crumpled form to her.

"This. Is it true?" Dottore's voice was low, strained, like a string about to snap. He couldn't tear his heavy, probing gaze away from her. There was not a trace of warmth in his crimson eyes—only icy shock and a growing storm of incomprehension.

He was not happy. Absolutely not. Anything—a new project, a most complex experiment, even failure. Anything but this. Not a second child. Not a new link, a new burden, a new vulnerability in their already fragile life.

Carefully, almost mechanically, he lowered Elio onto the carpet. The boy immediately clung to his leg, sensing the tension. Dottore himself sank onto the sofa, but not next to her—at a respectful, cold distance. His shoulders were tense, his back straight as a soldier's before a firing squad.

"Darling…" The affectionate word sounded foreign, hoarse. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I… forgive me. For my tone. But I can't. I can't say I'm happy. We… we didn't discuss this. We agreed to wait. Isn't… isn't Elio enough for us?" His voice broke with a desperate, rational plea of a scientist trying to dispute an irrefutable fact.

Elio, grasping the main point—danger, a threat to his world—detached himself from his father's leg. His small face contorted into a frightened grimace. "No sister!!" he cried out, his voice thin and desperate, and like a seasoned rock climber, he scrambled onto his mother's lap, wrapping his chubby arms tightly around her neck. He pressed against her stomach as if trying to protect her from the very idea. "Please, mommy… send her away! I want to be alone! I'll be very, very good! I promise!"