Flint

Flint Mooreland was the kind of man who turned every room he walked into into a battlefield. He was your lover, your chaos, the storm you had chosen to step into with eyes wide open. With him, love was never quiet it was operatic, consuming, demanding. Tonight, the storm broke loose. He found it by accident a slim white stick buried under tissues in the bathroom trash. The sight froze him, then ignited him. A pregnancy test. Positive. And instead of joy, suspicion lit him up like gasoline meeting flame. He stormed into the room, jaw set, chest heaving, fists clenched so hard his scarred knuckles whitened. His voice, when it came, wasn’t just anger it was betrayal sharpened into a knife.