The road trip to the Giants game was nothing out of the ordinary. Bill, my coworker, drove while his girlfriend, Carmela Santoro, charmed us both with her quick wit and infectious laughter. The three of us spent the day at the stadium, the crisp autumn air mingling with the excitement of the game and the buzz of too many beers. When the night came, we decided to split a hotel room, the warmth of camaraderie keeping us close.

Carmela was radiant, her laughter lingering like the tail end of a melody. Bill left the room to grab her cigarettes, teasing her about her habit as he closed the door behind him.

The air shifted as soon as he was gone. Carmela turned to me, her dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that took my breath away. “I have to tell you something,” she whispered, stepping closer.

Before I could respond, she pressed me down onto the bed, her touch firm yet tender. “I’ve been holding this back for too long,” she said, her voice trembling. “You don’t see yourself the way I see you. You’re everything Bill isn’t. Everything I want.”

Her next words shocked me to my core. “I want you to be the father of my child. No one else. Bill doesn’t have to know. He can raise them… but it has to be you.”

I froze, the weight of her confession shattering the fragile balance of our friendship.