When the doctor told him Arianne was pregnant, Franz felt the world tilt on its axis and right itself in the same breath.
Twelve weeks. She was twelve weeks pregnant. A baby. Their baby. The child they had been hoping for, waiting for, tracking cycles and counting days and trying not to want it too desperately in case it didn't happen. The child he had wanted since he understood what it meant to want a future with her.
He was over the moon. He couldn't contain it. His hands, which had been trembling with fear for hours, suddenly shook with something else entirely. Joy. Pure, incandescent joy. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to rush into her room and gather her into his arms and tell her how happy he was, how grateful, how utterly overwhelmed by the gift she was carrying.
Then he looked at Dr. Johnson's face, and something made him pause.
