Chapter Text
The day had begun with a deceptive sense of calm. Till had woken up with the gentle drowsiness of someone in no rush to leave bed, wrapped in the warm certainty of being exactly where he belonged. Ivan had already left for work, but not without planting a soft kiss on his forehead and leaving a note stuck to the fridge in his hurried handwriting: “You’re cooking today, love <3”. A small gesture, intimate, one Till treasured more than he’d ever admit.
He shuffled to the kitchen, one hand resting naturally on his abdomen. The bump was faint, barely noticeable, yet enough to remind him, with every movement, of the enormity quietly unfolding inside him. He hadn’t told Ivan yet. Not out of fear. In fact, he knew—with the kind of certainty only love can bring—that Ivan would cry. Out of joy. Out of tenderness. But Till wanted something more. He wanted that moment to be perfect. Intimate. Just theirs.
He was taking ingredients out of the fridge when the doorbell rang. He froze. Frowned. Who on earth could that be at this hour? They weren’t expecting anyone. He wiped his hands on his sweatshirt with a slow, almost mechanical motion and walked toward the door.
He opened it.
And there he was.
A young man. Perhaps younger than him, though his face held a beauty so ethereal it seemed untouched by time. Platinum-blond hair, golden eyes with a feline glint, pale luminous skin. And a belly. Full, prominent, unmistakably pregnant.
What he said next didn’t just shatter the calm of the morning — it rearranged the world around him.
—Hello —he said, in a voice soft enough to sound more like a confession than a greeting—. You must be Till. I’m Luka. I’ve been your husband’s lover for over a year. I’m carrying his baby.
Till didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. The words hung in the air, slow and heavy, each syllable weighing more than his mind could hold. Lover. Over a year. Baby. Ivan’s.
The world seemed to contract inward, collapsing on itself. Everything became distant, static. Only the doorframe under his fingers kept him grounded, like a shipwrecked man clinging to the last piece of wood.
—What… did you say? —his voice was no more than a fractured whisper, a ghost of itself.
Instinctively, his other hand came to rest on his own belly. Not out of protection, but as a reminder: I’m carrying his child too. As if that touch could affirm a truth now threatened by another, crueler one.
Luka looked at him with no guilt, no shame, only that strange calm, as if what he had just said wasn’t a grenade thrown into a house built with years of love. He looked more like a fever dream than a real person. And yet, he was there. With his belly. With his story.
And Till stood, unsure whether to scream, cry, fall apart… or simply close the door. Pretend no one had ever rung the bell. Pretend the day was still peaceful.
Till didn’t know how long he stood there, eyes locked with Luka’s. The silence stretched between them like a taut wire ready to snap. Luka didn’t move. He didn’t even fidget. There was something disturbingly composed about him, like he had rehearsed this moment a thousand times.
—Do you want me to come in? —he asked, gently, almost politely. Too politely.
Till blinked. The question felt absurd. And yet, his body responded before his mind could process.
—I… No. No, you can’t just show up and—
—It’s not “just.” I debated coming for weeks. But you deserved to know. You need to know. Before he tells you in some watered-down version of the truth.
There it was. The tone. Smooth, even sympathetic, but with an underlying sharpness, like glass under silk. Luka wasn’t just here to inform. He was here to wound.
Till stepped back. He needed air. He needed Ivan. The kitchen felt far away now, like it belonged to another life. He pulled out his phone with shaking hands and called.
—I need you to come home, —he said when Ivan answered.
There was a pause. Then Ivan’s voice, calm but alert:
—What happened? Are you okay?
—I’m pregnant.
Another pause. Longer.
—You’re…?
—I’m pregnant, Ivan. And someone’s here. He says he’s been your lover for a year. He says he’s carrying your child.
The line went silent. So silent Till wondered if the call had dropped. Then came a sharp inhale.
—I’m on my way.
Twenty-three minutes later, the lock turned.
Ivan stepped in, face pale, tie loosened, hair messier than usual — he must’ve run. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on Till, then Luka, and finally back to Till’s trembling hand still resting on his belly.
—Till—
—Don’t. —His voice cracked. —Is it true? Just tell me. Don’t lie to me. I swear, Ivan, don’t lie to me.
Ivan’s jaw tightened. He looked at Luka, who met his gaze with infuriating serenity, one hand on his own belly like he’d won some silent war.
—I didn’t mean for it to happen.
Till’s heart dropped. That was an admission.
—Didn’t mean for it? How long, Ivan?
—A little over a year. We ended it. Months ago. Before I knew about... this. —He looked at Luka’s stomach like it was radioactive.
—Don’t act like you didn’t know —Luka cut in, still composed. —You left me with nothing. What did you expect me to do? Pretend it didn’t happen?
Ivan looked like he’d been punched.
—I never asked you to come here.
—No. But you never asked me anything, Ivan. Not about how I felt. Not about what I wanted. You just ran back to your little life like none of it mattered.
Till watched them, the words falling between them like shrapnel. He felt like he was outside his own body, a ghost in the room he had built with so much love.
—I trusted you, Ivan. Since we were kids. You could’ve broken up with me. You could’ve told me. But instead…
—I didn’t think it would last. I didn’t think he would matter. —Ivan’s voice cracked. —You always mattered more. You still do.
Till laughed, bitter and small.
—Then why do I feel like I’m the outsider in my own house?
Luka, for once, looked unsure. He lowered his gaze, then spoke quieter:
—I didn’t come here to destroy anything. I just… I needed to be seen. To be acknowledged.
—You got what you wanted, —Till said, his voice flat. —Now go.
Luka opened his mouth as if to argue, but then he saw the way Ivan looked at Till. It wasn’t guilt. It was desperation. Love.
And Luka, for all his sharp edges and calm cruelty, knew when he’d lost.
He walked out without another word.