“May I please have a bottle of water?” you ask, following him toward the kitchen and looking around as you go. The place feels lived-in - mismatched furniture, beach towels tossed over chairs, a surfboard leaned in the corner. They’d really made it their own.

“Will a glass do?” Pope asks, already opening a cabinet.

“A glass is fine,” you say with a grateful smile.

Kiara walks in as Pope fills the glass, followed by JJ and John B mid-argument.

“I’m telling you, Kie -all you and Sarah have to do is make a distraction, and John B and I sneak up and bam- we have the party desserts, the kooks have a horrible night, everybody wins,” JJ says, completely satisfied with himself.

“Yeah, you’re not roping Sarah into this,” John B replies.

“Or me,” Kiara adds, rinsing out a bowl and setting it on the rack.

“But it’s a brilliant plan - look, even y/n could participate,” JJ says, finally noticing you. He walks over and pulls out a chair beside the table without thinking. “She could pretend to give birth as the distraction.”

You sit immediately, grateful to be off your feet. “Yeah, I won’t be doing that,” you say.

John B and Pope laugh. JJ looks mildly offended. “Why are you here again?” he asks, sounding more like a curious brother than anything else.

You choke out a laugh as Pope hands you the glass of water. “I was actually wondering what you guys are doing Saturday evening… night-ish,” you say before taking a sip.

“We’re crashing Midsummers. You don’t have to distract anymore - you can be the getaway driver-” JJ starts.

“We’re not doing anything Saturday night, y/n,” Pope cuts in firmly.

You nod. “That’s good,” you say, setting the glass down. “I’m not going to Midsummers this year, so I was wondering if you guys wanted to come over. Eat, have snacks, watch movies? You obviously don’t have to- think of it as an invitation.”

JJ perks up immediately. “Yeah, that sounds nice. You’re gonna have the good stuff, right? The name-brand snacks? Not the knock-offs?”

“Uhhh… yes?” you answer.

“Right. I forgot you’re a kook,” he nods.

John B lightly shoves his head. “We’d love to come over, y/n,” he says, already moving toward the fridge like he lives there.

“Cool,” you say, standing slowly. You wipe your palms against your pale blue linen maxi skirt, suddenly aware of your nerves. “Maybe come no earlier than five? And you don’t have to bring anything. I’ve got snacks and everything covered.”

Kiara smiles at you. “That sounds really nice.”

There’s a small pause- comfortable, not awkward. Like this is becoming normal. And that surprises you more than anything.

-

The house feels different when you walk back in. Not empty- just waiting. You slip your sandals off at the door and rest your hand on your belly as you look around the living room, mentally rearranging furniture, counting seats, wondering if you have enough blankets, enough snacks, enough anything.

You laugh softly at yourself. It’s just movie night. Not a dinner party. Not Midsummers. Still, you move.

You fluff the couch pillows, fold throw blankets over the armrests, and adjust the coffee table an inch to the left like it matters. The fireplace catches your attention next- you crouch down and stack the logs the way Pope showed you the other night, double-checking them even though you’re not lighting it yet.

“You’re nesting,” you murmur to yourself. Or maybe you’re just nervous.

You move into the kitchen, opening cabinets and the pantry, taking inventory like you’re preparing for a hurricane instead of five people coming over. Chips. Popcorn. Cookies. Ice cream in the freezer. Enough drinks for a small army.

You grab a bag of popcorn, then pause, resting your weight against the counter. “What if this is weird?” you whisper. The baby shifts faintly beneath your hand.

You smile. “Yeah… I know. I’m overthinking.” Because you are.

They didn’t hesitate when you invited them. They didn’t look confused or uncomfortable. They didn’t treat you like you didn’t belong. They just said yes. You move upstairs slowly, one hand trailing along the banister. The nursery door is still open from earlier, the new crib sitting in place like it’s always been there. You step inside.

“You’re going to have a lot of interesting people in your life,” you tell your belly, smiling softly. “Kooks. Pogues. All of them.” Another small kick. Your smile grows. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think I’m excited too.”

For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel heavy. It feels… open. You turn off the nursery light and head back downstairs, already thinking about which movie to put on first.

-

Saturday comes faster than you expect. The entire morning feels like anticipation sitting just beneath your skin - not anxiety exactly, but something close. You’d woken up earlier than usual, made breakfast you barely ate, and reorganized the living room twice for no real reason. By late afternoon, the house smells faintly like lemon cleaner and the vanilla candle you lit hours ago. Becca is already there, sitting cross-legged on the couch, watching you for the third time rearrange the throw pillows like they personally offended you.

“Okay,” she says slowly, “what is happening?”

You freeze mid-fluff. “Nothing.”

“You vacuumed twice.”

“There was sand.”

“You mopped hardwood floors.”

“There was… more sand.”

Becca narrows her eyes. You turn away quickly, wiping down the kitchen counter that is already spotless.

“I don’t understand why you’re acting like the Queen of England is coming over,” she continues. “We’re literally just hanging out.”

“We are just hanging out,” you insist, opening and closing cabinets you don’t need anything from.

Becca leans back into the couch cushions, watching you pace between rooms. “You’ve cleaned the bathroom, you’ve folded blankets that were already folded, you alphabetized your spice rack.”

You stop walking. “That one needed to be done.”

She sighs dramatically. “Y/n.”

You busy yourself straightening the stack of coasters on the coffee table.

“Y/n.”

“What?”

“Why are you nervous?”

You hesitate. Because you are nervous. Not in a bad way- just the unfamiliar feeling of two parts of your life getting ready to overlap. Becca. The Pogues. Your house. Your new life.

“I’m not nervous,” you lie.

Becca raises one eyebrow. “sure.”

You exhale. “Okay, maybe I’m a little nervous.”

“Why?” she asks, softer now.

You shrug. “I don’t know. I just want everything to go well.”

Becca studies you for a moment, then smiles gently. “It’s just me.”

You smile back, guilt tugging slightly in your chest. “Yeah. I know.”

Right on cue, the doorbell rings. Your stomach flips.

Becca sits up. “Were you expecting someone?”

You blink. There’s no stalling now.

“Yeah,” you admit, walking toward the door. Becca watches you, confused but curious, as you reach for the handle. You open it. And the familiar chaos of voices, laughter, and footsteps spills from your porch. The door swings open and the first thing you hear is JJ’s voice.

“Whoa… you cleaned.” He steps in like he’s been invited a hundred times, damp hair still messy from the ocean breeze, tracking a little sand behind him before Pope immediately smacks the back of his shoulder.

“Shoes off,” Pope mutters.

JJ groans but kicks them off anyway. Behind them, Sarah appears in the doorway with that easy smile you’ve grown fond of.

“Hi,” she says warmly, stepping forward and pulling you into a quick, careful hug. “We didn’t know if you meant like… actually five or OBX five.”

“I meant actual five,” you laugh. “You’re fine.”

John B follows her inside, nodding politely. “Thanks for having us.”

Kiara and Cleo come in behind him, both carrying the kind of relaxed energy that makes your house immediately feel less quiet. Cleo looks around approvingly. “Okay, this is nicer than i remember.”

Kie smiles at you. “It smells really good in here.”

Your shoulders drop a little. The nervousness starts dissolving. Then you remember. You turn. Becca is standing slowly from the couch.

Silent.

Blinking.

Processing.

Her eyes move across the room like she’s identifying animals in the wild. JJ notices her first. “Oh- hey.”

Everyone else turns. You clear your throat.

Becca smiles politely- too politely. “Oh. Wow. Hi.”

The room holds that awkward, fragile pause that happens when two worlds collide. Then JJ claps once.

“So what are we eating?”

The tension cracks immediately.John B laughs and heads toward the kitchen. Pope follows. Kiara asks where she can put the drinks they brought anyway despite your instructions. Cleo wanders toward the windows to look at the view. Sarah gives you a reassuring smile before joining them.

And then Becca grabs your wrist. “Kitchen. Now.”

You let yourself get dragged a few steps away, already knowing what’s coming. She lowers her voice. “What is happening?”

You wince. “I invited them.”

“I can see that.”

“You said you wanted to hang out this weekend.”

“With you,” she whispers aggressively. “Not the entire socioeconomic conflict of the Outer Banks.”

You laugh nervously. “They’re really nice, Becca.”

Becca peeks over your shoulder at them like they might bite. JJ is opening cabinets. Pope is apologizing while closing them, Kiara is lighting the candle again after accidentally blowing it out, Cleo is complimenting your fireplace, Sarah is helping John B carry bowls to the counter. They look… normal.

Becca turns back to you “I think I’m gonna go.”

Your stomach drops. “Becca.”

“No, it’s fine, I just— I don’t want to make it weird.”

“You’re not making it weird,” you say quickly. “Leaving would make it weird.”

She hesitates and you soften your voice. “They’re not what you think.”

“They’re Pogues,” she whispers.

“And they’re also just people.”

Becca watches them again before sighing  “You owe me. I’ll stay for thirty minutes.” She crosses her arms.

“One hour.” you counter 

“Deal.” And for the first time, you feel like maybe these parts of your life don’t have to stay separate forever.

“What are we watching?” Sarah asks as you drag Becca back toward the living room by the wrist.

“I haven’t decided yet,” you admit, lowering yourself carefully onto the couch. You cradle your belly for a second before adjusting the throw blanket over your legs. Becca drops down beside you with the most dramatic, pouty expression you’ve seen since forever- the one that says she’s being deeply inconvenienced. Which she technically is.

“I was thinking maybe a rom-com?” you suggest, settling back.

JJ groans immediately. “Booooorrrinnnggg,” he drags out, already reaching toward the bowl of mixed candy you set out. The coffee table looks borderline professional- trail mix, small chip bags, sparkling water, sodas, and a carefully arranged charcuterie board in the center.

Kiara smacks his hand before he can grab anything. “Wash your hands and use the tongs,” she hisses, like the integrity of the evening depends on it.

JJ stares at her. “This is a safe space, Kie.”

“There are little baggies on the side,” you add, pointing. “You can load up and then sit down like civilized people.”

John B sits up from his slouched position, scanning the spread. “This is… classy.”

“Thank you,” you say, pleased.

“What about an action movie?” JJ suggests as he stands and heads toward the kitchen sink.

“No,” Pope says immediately, standing to follow him. “Action movies for you are like Cocomelon to a toddler.”

“That is disrespectful.”

“It’s accurate,” Cleo adds.

Sarah tucks her legs under herself. “What about comedy? That way everyone’s happy.”

“That sounds safe,” you agree.

JJ returns, shaking water off his hands like a dog before grabbing a baggie and the tongs dramatically. You glance at Becca. Her chin is still resting in her palm. The pout remains. You lightly elbow her ribs. She straightens instantly, plastering on the polished, society-approved smile you’ve seen her use at fundraisers.

“Uhhh… what about Superbad?” she suggests into the quiet.

JJ gasps “I love Superbad! I relate to Seth on so many levels.”

Kiara looks at him with genuine concern “That’s not a good thing.”

“Yeah,” John B nods.

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “I actually think you’re more of a mix between Bill Hader and Seth Rogen’s characters.”

Cleo bursts out laughing. Sarah snorts “That’s biblically accurate,” Pope adds.

JJ points at Pope. “Okay, if I’m the officers, then you’re Fogell.”

“I’ll take it,” Pope shrugs. “Fogell’s the best character.”

“No, I’m Fogell,” John B interrupts. “Pope’s Evan.”

“Absolutely not,” Pope protests.

“What about the girls?” JJ asks, tossing a Skittle in the air and catching it in his mouth. “Becca has to be Becca.”

Becca rolls her eyes. You lean closer to her and whisper, “If you were a movie character, you’d be the Grinch.” She fights a smile.

“I can’t fake the funk,” she mutters under her breath.

“Don’t fake it,” you whisper back. “Just be open.”

Across the room, Sarah is laughing at something Cleo says. Kiara is reorganizing the snack table for the third time. John B and Pope are debating side characters like it’s a thesis discussion. JJ is passionately defending his emotional depth. Becca watches them. Really watches them this time.

“They’re… loud,” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” you say softly.

On the TV screen, the menu for Superbad hovers, waiting. JJ grabs the remote triumphantly “If we’re doing this, we’re committing.”

“Fine,” Kiara says. “But please don’t quote the entire movie.”

He gasps like she’s wounded him. As the opening credits start, the room dims. Laughter begins almost immediately- overlapping, easy, unfiltered. Becca startles the first time JJ blurts out something ridiculous.

Then she laughs - not polite laughter- real laughter. You glance at her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispers.

“Like what?”

“Like you won.”

You smile and rest your hand over your belly, watching Becca as she leans back fully into the couch instead of perching on the edge. She grabs a handful of candy from JJ’s bag without asking. He gasps in betrayal.

“See?” you whisper to her. “You’re already one of them.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t move away. The movie keeps playing, the house filled with laughter that feels less divided than it did a few hours ago. JJ is quoting half the lines before they’re said. Pope keeps correcting him. Kiara threatens violence every ten minutes. John B laughs like he’s never seen the movie before. Cleo is completely invested. Sarah is half-watching, half-commenting. Becca is trying not to laugh. She fails.

You’re curled into the corner of the couch, a blanket over your legs, one hand resting over your belly. The glow of the TV flickers across everyone’s faces. Your phone vibrates softly against your thigh. Once. You glance down. Rafe. Your stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with pregnancy. You unlock it quietly.

Rafe: This is painfully boring.

Another text comes in before you respond.

Rafe: Is your night going better than mine?

You hesitate. Across the room, JJ shouts, “This is CINEMA,” and throws popcorn at Pope. You bite back a smile. You type back.

You: Yeah. It’s good.

Three dots appear almost immediately. Disappear. Reappear.

Rafe: Good.

A pause.

Rafe: She behaving tonight?

Your hand drifts to your belly instinctively. Right on cue, a small kick. You let out a quiet laugh. Across the room, Sarah glances at you. You look back down at the thread.

You: she’s a little hyper tonight.

Rafe: Must’ve ate some sugar.

You stare at that message a second longer than necessary. Your thumb hovers.

You: How long is Midsummers supposed to last tonight?

Rafe: Too long. Thinking about leaving soon.

Your chest tightens slightly at that. You don’t know why.

You: Drive safe.

Rafe: Always do. Text me if she starts practicing MMA again.

You smile at your phone. Will do. The conversation ends there. No heart emojis. No longing confessions. No jealousy. Just easy. You lock your phone and set it face down.

JJ suddenly looks at you. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“She is,” Pope confirms.

Becca narrows her eyes at you. You grab a handful of popcorn and throw it lightly at JJ. “Watch the movie.”

Laughter erupts again. The TV glow flickers. Your house feels warm. Your worlds don’t feel like they’re colliding. They feel like they’re coexisting. And that feels like progress. Your phone vibrates again. It’s subtle, but in a room this loud and this close, it feels amplified. You casually shift, angling the screen toward the outside of your thigh so no one can see it. Your heart does that small, annoying stutter before your brain catches up.

Rafe: I was thinking of leaving a little earlier. I know you said you were relaxing tonight, but do you think I could come over and hang out a little?

You lips twitch before you can stop them. Across the room, JJ is arguing with Pope about who ruined the fake ID plan. Cleo and Sarah are laughing. Kiara is mid-eye roll. No one’s paying attention. You force your face neutral. 

You: That’s not very coparenting of you lol

Rafe: This is very coparenting of me. I’m trying to get along and mend my relationship with the mother of my child.

You press your lips together, fighting the warmth creeping up your neck. Touché.

You: Not tonight. But I can come see you tomorrow if you want.

Rafe: That sounds good. What time would that be?

You: Noon maybe?

Rafe: Sounds good.

Simple. Easy. Normal. You stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary, your thumb hovering like there’s something else you should say. There isn’t. You lock your phone. Becca nudges you sharply with her elbow. You nearly jump.

“Who are you texting?” she whispers.

You glance around instinctively. Everyone else’s eyes are glued to the TV, except JJ. He’s very obviously not watching the movie. He’s watching you. Specifically, you and Becca, like he just heard the question and isn’t pretending he didn’t.

You make direct eye contact with him. He immediately snaps his gaze back to the TV like he’s afraid you’re about to publicly execute him. You narrow your eyes slightly. He sinks lower into the couch.

Satisfied, you turn back to Becca.

“Nobody,” you murmur, sliding your phone under your thigh and forcing your attention to the screen. But Becca doesn’t look convinced. Her eyes linger on you, not accusatory, just curious.

“You’re glowing,” she whispers.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

On screen, Seth is yelling about something ridiculous and the room erupts again. JJ laughs a little too loudly. You grab a piece of popcorn and toss it in his direction without looking. It hits his shoulder. He gasps in betrayal.

“You’re violent tonight.”

“Focus,” you mutter.

Even as you pretend to be invested in the movie, you can still feel Becca’s stare. Suspicious. Measuring. You lean slightly closer to her. “It was just about tomorrow,” you say quietly, not looking at her. “Logistics with Rafe.”

Her brows lift. “Mm.”

You sigh softly. “It’s not a thing.”

She studies you for another second, then looks back at the screen. “I didn’t say it was.” The corner of her mouth twitches like she absolutely thinks it might be. On the other side of the couch, JJ shifts again. You glance at him. He gives you the smallest, most dramatic squint. You mouth: What? He mouths back: Nothing. You point at the TV. He straightens immediately.

The movie keeps playing. The room stays warm. The laughter stays easy. Under your thigh, your phone feels heavier than it should. 

Your phone starts vibrating under your thigh again. The entire cushion hums. Becca and JJ both turn at the same time- the only three of you on this section of the couch. Becca’s tucked into your right side, knees folded under her. JJ’s on the floor in front of her, back leaned against the couch on the right side of her legs, head tipped back just enough that he can glance up at you.

You freeze for half a second before sliding your phone out. Rafe calling. Of course. You roll your eyes and hit decline, trying to act casual. Becca’s gaze lingers a beat too long before she turns back to the TV. JJ watches your face instead of the screen, curious, then slowly looks forward again like he’s pretending he didn’t just notice.

You shove the phone back under your thigh. Ten seconds later, it starts ringing again. You mutter something under your breath and push yourself up from the couch, careful not to make it obvious you’re escaping. Your heart is beating faster than it should.

“Bathroom,” you whisper vaguely, already walking. No one questions it. You slip into the front entryway instead, clearing your throat softly before answering.

“Yes, Rafe?” you say quietly.

There’s a pause. “Hello to you too,” he mutters. That slight drag in his words. Your stomach sinks. He’s drunk. Not angry. Not explosive. Just drunk.

Your chest tightens anyway. He’d been doing better. He’d been trying.

“What’s up?” you ask carefully, bracing yourself for a shift in tone that never quite comes.

“I… I just wanted to see what you were up to.”

You blink. That wasn’t what you expected.

“I’m watching a movie,” you answer.

“What movie?”

“Superbad.”

There’s a faint laugh on the other end. “I’m surprised it’s not a romcom.”

“I was going to,” you admit, “but I decided against it.”

“Why’s that?”

You hesitate. Because I didn’t want to sit here crying while the pogues sits five feet away. Instead you pivot. “Why are you calling me, Rafe?”

There’s shuffling on his end. Maybe he’s pacing. Maybe he’s slouched somewhere expensive and empty. “I can’t talk to my favorite lady?” he says, softer this time.

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see you. “If you wanted to say goo goo ga ga to my belly, all you had to do was say so.”

He laughs. Warm. Unfiltered. “Yeah? Rub the belly for me.”

You glance down instinctively, hand resting there for half a second before you pull it away like someone might see down the hall.

“So are you going to tell me why you called?” you press gently.

“Well…” He exhales. “I’m drunk. Bored. And lonely.”

Your jaw tightens slightly.

“Not lonely like that,” he adds quickly. “Just… there’s never anyone around. Not really.”

“What about Topper and Kelce?” you tease, trying to lighten it.

“They’re cool and all but…” He sighs. “They’re not people I can have actual conversations with. It’s all money. Deals. Boats. Bullshit.”

You lean your back against the door, sliding down just slightly until your shoulders rest fully against it.

“It’s just… you and I are finally getting back on the same page,” he continues. “And it feels like having a friend again. I don’t know. It sounds stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” you say quietly. “I get it.” And you do. Even if it complicates everything.

“It is my own fault though,” he mutters. “I pushed you away.”

You close your eyes for a second. “It is,” you say honestly. “You did.” There’s silence on the line. “But you recognized it,” you continue gently. “You’re trying. That’s what matters.”

He exhales slowly. “Can you feed me words of wisdom when I’m not drunk?” he asks, a small smile tucked into his voice.

A soft laugh escapes you. “Sure. Tomorrow. Noon.”

“Tomorrow…” he repeats.

“Yeah. Noon.”

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Tomorrow. Noon.”

There’s something fragile about the way he says it, like he’s anchoring himself to it. You hear faint laughter from the living room. The movie is still playing. Your real world is ten feet away.

“I should go,” you say softly.

“Yeah,” he agrees, though he doesn’t hang up right away. You wait. Then finally, the line clicks dead.

You stare at your reflection in the dark window next to the door for a second, caught between two versions of your life, before slipping back into the living room.

.

The room erupts in laughter at something on screen. Becca glances at you. JJ does too. This time JJ doesn’t look away.

-

When you wake up, the TV has shifted to that dim, floating loading screen. The house is quiet. You blink a few times, disoriented, before realizing you’re still on the couch. Your neck aches slightly from the awkward angle. Slowly, carefully, you turn your head.

John B is slumped sideways, mouth slightly open. Sarah’s curled against him. Pope is out cold on the armchair. Kie’s sprawled half on the ottoman. Cleo’s asleep upright. JJ is still on the floor, back against the couch, Becca’s arm lazily draped over his shoulder like she fell asleep mid-sentence.

You reach for your phone beside you. 1:07 a.m. Too late to wake everyone up. And honestly, you don’t want to.You ease yourself upright, moving slowly. The weight of your belly shifts with you. A small wince escapes before you can stop it. Your hand instinctively goes to the small of your back, pressing there for support. God, you didn’t expect pregnancy to feel this physical all the time.

You stand carefully and pad toward the linen closet, grabbing as many blankets as you can carry without overbalancing yourself. One by one, you drape them over everyone. Over Sarah and John B first. Then Pope. Then Kie and Cleo. You hesitate for half a second before laying one over JJ too, even though he’d probably claim he doesn’t need it. Becca gets the last one, and you tuck it gently around her shoulders.

For a moment, you just stand there looking at them, this messy, loud, chaotic group that somehow always ends up back together. It feels safe. It feels like before.

Quietly, you make your way upstairs. Each step is deliberate. You change into something softer, wash your face, and finally lower yourself into bed with a tired exhale. The room feels bigger without the noise downstairs.

You roll onto your side, one hand instinctively sliding over your stomach. Your thumb traces slow circles over the curve. Self-soothing. Grounding. Your thoughts drift to Rafe, to his slurred voice, to the quiet honesty in it, to the way he said lonely. You picture him in that big house, probably still in his clothes, sprawled across the living room couch. Maybe the TV still on. Maybe the lights too bright. Maybe a half-finished drink on the table. Drunk. Alone.

The heaviness in your chest surprises you. Despite everything, loneliness is never something you wanted for him. You press your palm a little firmer against your belly. “He’s trying,” you whisper to yourself or maybe to the baby. You’re not sure anymore. Tomorrow. Noon. Your mind lingers there.

—

You wake to sunlight pouring directly into your eyes. Not gentle, filtered morning light. Aggressive. Blinding. You groan softly, squinting as you throw an arm over your face. For a second you forget where you are, then the faint hum of voices downstairs pulls you back. Right. The Pogues. You blink a few more times before carefully rolling onto your side. You’ve learned your lesson about sitting up too fast. One wrong movement and your stomach tightens in protest.

Slowly, you push yourself upright, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. Your hand presses instinctively to the underside of your belly, supporting it as you stand. Voices drift up the stairs. Laughter. A fork clinking against a plate. The unmistakable smell of butter and syrup. Your stomach growls.

You look down at your belly.

“We’re pretty hungry, huh?” you murmur, rubbing over the curve like you’re waiting for a response. You swear you feel the faintest shift. “Yeah, yeah. I’m moving.”

You brush your teeth, splash cool water on your face, and smooth your hair into something halfway presentable. It’s only 8:32 a.m. When you reach the top of the stairs, the scene below makes you pause.

The living room looks like a sleepover aftermath, blankets everywhere, bodies half-buried in cushions, except now everyone’s upright. And holding plates.

John B is cross-legged on the floor with a full stack of pancakes balanced on his palm. Sarah’s perched beside him, already halfway through hers. Pope has his plate dangerously close to the edge of the coffee table. Kie and Cleo are sharing syrup like it’s communal property. JJ’s back on the floor, leaning against the couch again, chewing like he hasn’t eaten in days.

The second John B spots you, his face lights up. “Well look who’s finally awake!” he calls dramatically.

Every single head turns toward you. You freeze halfway down the stairs, suddenly hyperaware of your oversized sleep shirt and messy hair. You let out a small, awkward laugh under the attention. “Sorry. I was going to wake up earlier but…” You glance down, placing a protective hand over your stomach. “She asked for another hour.”

A few of them soften immediately. JJ snorts. “Yeah, blame the innocent baby.”

You point at him defensively. “I absolutely will.”

He grins, completely unbothered. You pad the rest of the way down and follow the smell into the kitchen.

Becca is at the stove like she’s running a diner. Spatula in hand. Pancakes mid-flip. Hair tied up. Already fully dressed in your clothes she took from your room while you were still asleep like she’s been awake for hours. You lean against the counter, watching her with suspicion.

“I took the liberty of making them breakfast,” she says without looking at you. “Since their HOST was still asleep.” She flips another pancake with unnecessary flair. “I was going to subtly hint that they should leave,” she continues, lowering her voice slightly, “but they just looked like poor, hungry orphans.”

She makes a dramatic pout, eyes wide and glassy in fake sympathy. You stare at her.

“Becca,” you say slowly, reaching for the plate she’s already sliding toward you, “that’s deeply problematic.”

She shrugs, voice coming up to her normal level. “They were on the floor. Blankets and everything. It was giving Dickensian.”

You laugh under your breath, taking a bite. It’s warm. Soft. Exactly what your body was demanding.

From the living room, JJ calls, “Hey! We can hear you!”

Becca raises her voice without turning around. “GOOD.”

You shake your head, chewing as you glance back toward the living room. They’re loud. Annoying. Taking up your space. But they’re comfortable. And for the first time since last night, your chest doesn’t feel tight.

Until you remember. Noon. Your hand drifts absently to your belly again. Tomorrow had felt far away last night. Now it feels close.

The house is louder now than it was last night. Plates are being stacked in the sink. Someone’s arguing about who ate the last pancake. Cleo is trying to find her other shoe. Pope is apologizing for absolutely nothing. Sarah and Kie are re-folding the blankets you put out.

You lean against the kitchen counter with a glass of water, smiling despite yourself. It feels normal. Almost too normal.

“Alright, alright,” John B claps his hands together. “We should probably let the pregnant lady rest.”

“Hey,” you protest lightly. “I’m not fragile.”

“You literally blamed the baby for sleeping in,” JJ says, pointing at you.

You narrow your eyes at him. “And I’ll do it again.”

Laughter ripples through the room. One by one they start heading toward the door. Sarah hugs you first, careful but tight. “Text me if you need anything. Like actually.”

“I will,” you promise.

Kie squeezes you next. Cleo follows with a soft smile and a quick, firm hug.

 Pope adjusts his hair awkwardly before stepping in for a side hug like he’s afraid of crushing you.  “If you need help with anything. Baby stuff. Research. I’ve already started a folder.”

You blink. “Of course you have.”

JJ hangs back until the end. Of course he does. He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels like he’s debating something serious.

“What?” you ask.

He looks at your stomach. Then back at you. “So like, hypothetically…”

You already don’t like this. “Hm.”

“When the baby gets here,” he continues slowly, “would it be weird if I called you mom too?”

The room goes silent. John B chokes on air. Sarah slaps his arm. Kie says, “Oh my God.” You stare at JJ.

He shrugs defensively. “What? You cook. You lecture. You yell at me when I do dumb stuff. Feels natural.”

“You’re two years younger than me,” you say flatly.

“And emotionally?” he counters.

You can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of you. You step forward and pull him into a hug before he can dodge it. He stiffens for half a second, then melts into it, arms wrapping around you carefully.

“You can call me whatever you want,” you murmur. “Just not at school pickup.”

He grins against your shoulder. “Deal.”

When you pull back, you look at all of them, standing in your doorway like they’ve claimed it as their own.

“Seriously,” you say, softer now. “You guys can come here whenever you need or even want to. I mean that.”

John B tilts his head. “Careful. We’ll take you up on that.”

“I know,” you smile. And you mean it.

They file out slowly, still talking, still laughing, JJ being the last one to step off the porch. He turns around one more time. The house goes quiet except for the sound of Becca cleaning up the pancake mess. You close the door and rest your hand over your belly again.

“Alright,” you murmur. Noon is coming. And this time, there’s no one around to buffer it. 

You stand in front of your closet for a long moment, arms crossed, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

It’s just a conversation. Just noon. Just coparenting. Your fingers slide past hoodies. Past oversized tees. Past the safest options. You stop on the pink tank top. Soft. Fitted. Not tight, but it skims your shape in a way that makes you look glowy. You pull it off the hanger before you can overthink it.

Then the green maxi skirt. Flowy. Light. It drapes under your belly comfortably without squeezing. When you step into it and pull it up, it falls in a soft line down your legs, brushing your ankles. You turn sideways in the mirror. You don’t look like you’re trying too hard. You just look pretty. Your eyes drop to your shoes lined up by the wall. You reach for the pink kitten-heeled sandals - the ones with the tiny artificial flowers stitched along the thong strap. They’re delicate. Almost sweet. You slide them on.

Definitely not something you’d wear to “just talk.”

You stare at your reflection.He’s going to notice. A knock hits your door before you can spiral further.

Becca doesn’t wait for permission. She pushes it open and leans against the frame, then slowly straightens when she sees you.

“Oh.”

You pretend not to hear the tone. “What?” you ask casually, adjusting the hem of your skirt.

Becca steps fully into the room, eyes scanning you from head to toe. “Where,” she asks carefully, “are you going?”

You grab your lip gloss from the dresser and swipe it on like this is nothing. “I told you,” you say lightly. “I agreed to talk to Rafe.”

Becca’s eyebrows lift. “Talk.”

“Yeah.”

She folds her arms. “Since when do you wear an outfit like that to talk?”

You look down at your outfit like you just remembered it exists. “It’s comfortable.”

She just stares at you. You sigh. “It’s just a conversation. About the baby. About coparenting. We need to be on the same page.”

Becca’s expression softens slightly, but only slightly. “Are you secretly seeing him again?” she asks.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just asking,” she says quickly. “Because if you are, I’d rather hear it from you than find out later.”

You step closer, genuinely offended. “You really think I wouldn’t tell you?”

Her face shifts immediately. “That’s not what I meant-”

“No, because it kind of is,” you say, quieter now. “You think I’d hide something like that from you?”

Becca’s shoulders drop. “I don’t think that,” she admits. “I just… don’t want you getting hurt.”

The edge drains out of you. You know that tone. You soften. “I’m not secretly seeing him,” you say gently. “We’re just… figuring things out. For the baby.”

Which isn’t a lie. It just isn’t the whole truth. Becca studies you for another moment, then steps forward and wraps her arms around you carefully. You hug her back, chin resting lightly on her shoulder.

“If he messes with your head,” she murmurs, “I will personally key his bike.”

You snort. “Not the KTM.”

“Especially the KTM.”

You pull back, smiling. “I’ll be fine.”

She gives you one last look- not fully convinced, but trusting you anyway. “Text me when you leave,” she says, grabbing her bag.

“I will.”

She pauses at the door. “And if this is not just ‘talking,’” she adds pointedly, “I expect details.”

You roll your eyes. “Go home.” She laughs and finally leaves. The front door clicks shut. Silence settles back in. You turn toward the mirror one more time.

Pink.

Green.

Soft.

You smooth your hands over your belly. “Okay,” you whisper. Now it feels real.

No buffer.

No audience.

No chaos.

Just you. And him. And whatever this is becoming.

-

The drive feels shorter than it should. Or maybe longer. You can’t decide.

The engine hums beneath you as you pull out of your neighborhood, sunlight flashing across the windshield in brief, blinding bursts. Your fingers tighten around the steering wheel at the first red light, then loosen again when you realize you’re gripping too hard.

It’s just Rafe. You’ve done this a thousand times. Except you haven’t. Not like this. Not after everything. Not with a baby growing beneath your hands. Not after a drunk midnight confession about loneliness. Your hand drifts to your stomach at another stoplight.

“We’re just talking,” you murmur softly.

The word feels thin. Talking. Your mind replays last night against your will.

It feels like having a friend again.

You swallow. The light turns green.

You pass familiar streets, places that used to feel smaller when you were younger. The gas station he used to stop at. The turn that leads toward the marina. The stretch of road where you once screamed at each other with the windows down because neither of you knew how to stop.

Your pulse ticks up the closer you get. You check the time on the dashboard. 11:57. You’re early. Of course you are.

His house comes into view at the end of the long drive, big, clean, intimidating in that quiet, old-money way. The kind of house that feels too still when no one’s laughing inside it.

You slow as you pull in. There’s his truck. Good. You shift into park but don’t get out immediately. Your reflection stares back at you faintly in the windshield.

Pink tank.

Green skirt.

Soft gloss.

Flowers on your heels.

You look like someone going on a date. Your stomach flips at the thought.

“We are not,” you mutter to yourself. “This is not that.”

Your palm presses gently against your belly again, grounding. A breeze moves through the trees lining the driveway. It’s quiet. Too quiet. You wonder what he’s doing inside. Is he pacing? Did he clean? Is he pretending he doesn’t care? Does he remember every word from last night? Is he embarrassed? Is he hoping?

You exhale slowly and reach for the door handle before you can talk yourself out of it. The air outside is warmer than you expected. Your sandals click softly against the driveway as you make your way toward the front door. Each step feels heavier than it should.

You pause at the door. For half a second, you consider knocking. Instead, you lift your hand and press the doorbell. The chime echoes faintly inside. Your heart starts beating harder. Footsteps. You hear them before you see him. And suddenly the reality of this, of noon, of the outfit, of last night, of everything unfinished between you, settles squarely in your chest.

The handle turns slowly. And for one irrational second, you consider running. The door opens. Rafe stands there.

Barefoot. Grey sweatpants. A plain white t-shirt that looks like he threw it on five minutes ago but somehow still fits him like it was tailored. His hair is slightly damp, like he showered, like he made an effort. He looks sober.

Clear-eyed. Nervous.

There’s a flicker of surprise when he takes you in, pink, green, soft, and it lingers just a second too long.

“Hey,” he says.

Not slurred. Not guarded. Just hey.

“Hi.”

There’s an awkward half second where neither of you move.

Then he steps back. “Come in.”

You walk past him, the familiar scent of his house hitting you instantly. Clean. Faint cologne. Something citrus from whatever he used to wipe things down. He definitely cleaned. The living room looks staged. Pillows adjusted. Coffee table clear. No stray bottles. No evidence of last night.

You notice.

He notices that you notice.

“I, uh,” he rubs the back of his neck, “didn’t know what you wanted to do so I just figured we could sit.”

“Sit is good,” you say, smoothing your skirt as you lower yourself onto the couch.

He sits on the opposite end at first. Too far. Like you’re coworkers. Silence settles between you, not hostile, just thick.

He glances at your stomach.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks.

“Hungry. Always,” you admit.

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “I made coffee. And I have, I don’t know, like six types of cereal.”

You laugh softly. “Wow. Impressive.”

He shrugs. “Trying.”

That word again. Trying.

Your fingers twist together in your lap. “You remember last night?”

His jaw tightens slightly. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

You study him carefully. “All of it?”

“Enough,” he replies quietly.

Silence again, but this one is different. More fragile. He shifts slightly closer, not touching you, but not miles away either.

“I meant what I said,” he adds. “About it feeling like having someone again.”

Your throat tightens. “You were drunk.”

“Doesn’t mean I was lying.”

That lands heavier than you expect. You glance down at your belly, smoothing your hand over it to give yourself something to focus on. “You said you were lonely,” you say.

He nods once. “I am,” he admits. “I built a life where everyone’s around but no one’s really there.” He looks at you then, not intense, not demanding, just honest.

“I don’t want you lonely,” you say quietly before you can stop yourself.

Something shifts in his expression. Softens.

“I don’t want you stressed,” he counters gently, eyes flicking down to your stomach. “Especially not because of me.”

There’s space between you still, but it feels smaller now.

“You don’t have to dress up to talk to me, by the way,” he says suddenly, one corner of his mouth lifting.

Your head snaps up. “I didn’t dress up.”

He raises an eyebrow. You look down at your skirt, your shoes. Heat creeps up your neck. “This is comfortable.”

“Uh huh.”

You glare at him, but there’s no venom in it. He shifts closer again, not enough to touch, just enough that you feel the warmth of him.

“You look really pretty,” he says quietly.

Your breath stutters before you can stop it. You clear your throat. “We’re here to talk.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

But neither of you move away. The silence stretches just long enough for your stomach to betray you. A low, unmistakable growl. You freeze. Rafe blinks, then his mouth twitches.

“Wow,” he says softly. “That was aggressive.”

You press a hand to your belly, mortified. “She’s dramatic.”

“She?” he echoes, amused.

You ignore that part. “I told you I’m always hungry.”

He stands immediately. “Okay. Kitchen.”

You push yourself up slower, adjusting your skirt as you follow him. The house feels different now, less intimidating, more quiet. You step into the kitchen. It’s clean. Suspiciously clean. You open the fridge and pause.

There’s almond milk.

Half a carton of eggs.

A bottle of hot sauce.

Two beers.

An unopened thing of spinach that looks like it’s losing hope.

And a single takeout container.

You glance at him over your shoulder. “This is it?”

He leans against the counter, arms crossed. “I told you. I have cereal.”

You close the fridge slowly. “Rafe.”

“What?”

“When was the last time you grocery shopped?”

He shrugs. “Couple weeks?”

You stare at him. “You can’t just live off cereal and takeout.”

“I’m alive,” he counters lightly.

“Barely.” You open cabinets. 

Crackers.

Protein bars.

Pasta.

No sauce.

You exhale sharply. He watches you move around his kitchen like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

“You’re already in momma bear mode,” he says lazily.

You don’t look at him. “Someone has to be.”

“And she hasn’t even come yet.”

That makes you stop. You slowly turn to face him.

“Don’t,” you warn, though there’s no heat behind it.

He steps closer, not cornering you, just entering your space. “It’s kinda hot,” he says quietly. “You taking over my kitchen.”

You roll your eyes. “You don’t even have actual food. What if I wasn’t here?”

He shrugs again, smaller this time. “That’s kind of the point.”

That softens you. “You haven’t really been taking care of yourself,” you say gently.

He looks away first. “Been busy.”

“With what?”

He doesn’t answer. You don’t push. Instead, you grab the eggs, the spinach, the bread.

“Sit,” you tell him.

He huffs a quiet laugh but obeys, grabbing a knife. You crack eggs into a bowl. He watches you, not your hands, you.

“You look comfortable in here,” he says.

“I am.”

“You hate my kitchen.”

“I hate your lack of groceries.”

He smiles faintly. You move around each other easily, like muscle memory. He hands you the chopped spinach without being asked. You mix it in. The pan sizzles softly. The smell fills the space. It feels almost normal.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

“You could’ve just had cereal.”

“I don’t want cereal.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You glance up at him. “I know what you meant.” And you do.

He studies you. “You’re gonna be really good at this,” he says after a moment.

“At what?”

He nods toward your stomach.

You flip the eggs carefully. “We both are.”

He doesn’t argue. And for the first time since you walked in, it feels like something is building instead of breaking.

Eventually, the omelettes are done. You slide them carefully onto two plates while Rafe grabs forks from the drawer. He hands you one without looking, like muscle memory hasn’t faded.

“Careful,” he says quietly as you balance both plates.

“I’m fine,” you murmur.

You lead the way out of the kitchen. You feel him hesitate behind you for a second, probably assuming you’re heading for the couch. But the living room feels too soft. Too familiar. Too easy to slip into something that isn’t safe yet.

So you stop at the island instead. You pull out a stool and sit. He notices. And he respects it. He leaves one stool between you and takes the next one down, and you appreciate that more than he knows. You both start eating. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortable. Just careful.

“So…” you begin lightly, cutting into your omelette like this is casual. “What’s new in your life?” The question sounds almost formal. Like you ran into an ex at a high school reunion and you’re both pretending time didn’t exist.

“Uh…” He does a quick lip buzz, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like he’s scanning for something impressive. “I’ve been selling houses really well.” He nods once like that should cover it. “And that’s about it.” He glances at you. “You?”

There’s something about the way he says it, like he genuinely wants to know. And something about the way that’s all he had to offer that makes your chest ache a little. But you don’t let it show.

“Well,” you say, thinking, “most of the changes to my house are almost done.” He nods, listening. “My prenatal yoga teacher said I’m one of the most flexible pregnant women she’s ever seen.” A faint smile tugs at his mouth. You search for more, eyes drifting around the room like inspiration might be sitting on his countertops.

“I have a package coming tomorrow,” you add. He waits. “And I went to the grocery store the other day, and you know how every time I go, they’re out of samples? And there’s always that little table with the sample lady but it’s empty?” He’s already smiling. “Well, I just so happened to walk in as they were bringing out fresh ones. Fresh, like still steaming. And the lady let me take five because of my belly.” You’re rambling now. You know you are. But you can’t stop. “And I’m telling you, it felt like a personal victory because every other time I go they’re gone. Every single time.”

You finally glance up. And he’s just staring at you. Not blankly. Softly. That dazed, almost helpless look, like he’s watching something precious.

“What?” you ask, your neck warming instantly.

“You seem really happy,” he says. No teasing. No sarcasm. Just observation.

“I am,” you answer honestly.

He nods slowly. “And yeah,” he adds, a small laugh escaping him, “you used to get so mad about those samples.”

That breaks you. You both laugh, real laughter, the kind that feels familiar and effortless.

“That lady definitely had it out for me,” you say, wiping at your eye dramatically. “It’s suspicious that I just so happen to get five from a new lady. The old one definitely didn’t like me.”

“Personal vendetta,” he agrees solemnly. “She was threatened.”

You shake your head, smiling. The laughter fades gradually, but the warmth lingers. Then he says, casually, “By the way, your prenatal yoga teacher’s onto something.”

You narrow your eyes. “What does that mean?”

He leans back slightly, a grin slowly forming. “You are pretty flexible.”

You roll your eyes immediately and shove his shoulder lightly. “Rafe.” There’s no real heat in it.

He chuckles. “You’re the most flexible person I’ve ever seen. Remember that one time on the hallway banister…”

“Okay,” you cut in quickly, cheeks flushing at the memory. “We’re not doing that.”

He raises his hands in surrender, still smiling. But the air shifts slightly. Not heavy. Just charged.

You clear your throat. “So,” you continue, forcing composure, “have you done anything exciting recently? Like outside of selling houses?”

He hesitates. And this time, it’s different. His fork slows. He looks down at his plate for a second longer than necessary.

“Not really,” he admits quietly. “Work. Gym. Sleep.”

There’s a subtle emptiness in the way he says it. You don’t comment on it. But you feel it. And for the first time since sitting down, the space between your stools feels a little wider than before. You both fall into a softer quiet after that. Not awkward. Just thoughtful.

You finish the last bite of your omelette and glance at the plates between you. Without thinking, you slide off the stool.

“I’ll clean up…”

“Nope.” His voice is immediate.

You blink at him as he stands too. “I can wash two plates, Rafe.”

“I know you can,” he says evenly. “But you don’t have to.”

You open your mouth to argue. He gently takes the plate from your hands before you can.

“Sit.” It’s not commanding. It’s protective.

You hesitate. “I’m pregnant, not fragile.”

“I know,” he repeats. “Sit anyway.”

There’s something steady in his tone. Not ego. Not control. Just intention. So you sit back down. He turns toward the sink, running the water. You watch him roll up his sleeves slightly, the small domestic gesture hitting harder than it should.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” you say softly.

The water keeps running for a second longer before he answers. “I’m not trying to prove anything.” He turns the faucet off. Dries his hands slowly. “I just don’t want you doing everything.”

You swallow. “I’m used to doing everything,” you admit.

He turns toward you fully now. “That’s what I’m trying to change.”

The words land heavier than the kitchen noise ever did. You look down at your hands resting over your stomach. “It’s hard to know what’s real with you sometimes,” you say quietly.

There it is. The truth. He doesn’t get defensive. Doesn’t snap. He just nods once. “That’s fair.” Silence. “I’ve spent a long time reacting,” he continues, “instead of thinking. Instead of showing up the way I should.”

Your throat tightens slightly.

“I don’t expect you to just trust that’s different now.” You glance up at him. “But it is.”

You study him carefully, searching for cracks. “For how long?” you ask.

His jaw shifts slightly. “For as long as it needs to be.”

That answer surprises you. You shift on the stool, fingers brushing absently over your belly. “This isn’t just about us.”

“I know.”

“She deserves stability.”

“I know.”

You search his face again. “And I’m scared,” you admit before you can stop yourself.

That one costs you something. His expression softens immediately. “Of what?” he asks gently.

“Of letting things feel good again,” you say honestly, “and then it falling apart.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

“I can’t afford chaos anymore.”

His eyes flick down to your stomach. Then back to you. “You won’t get chaos from me,” he says. It’s not dramatic. You hold his gaze for a long moment. The kitchen feels smaller now. More intimate than the living room ever could have been. 

He steps a little closer, not invading, just closing the emotional gap. “You don’t have to carry everything,” he says softly.

Your voice barely rises above a whisper. “I’ve gotten really good at it.”

He nods. “I know.”

And something about the way he says that, like he sees it, like he respects it, makes your chest ache in a completely different way than before. Something that feels like the beginning of a partnership instead of a relapse.

He glances down again. “Can I?” he asks quietly. He’s looking at your stomach.

You hesitate only a second. Then you nod. He steps closer, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to. His hand rests gently against the curve of you. Warm. Careful. Grounded. And for the first time since you walked into his house, it doesn’t feel like tension. It feels like something steady being built.

His hand is still there. Warm. Open. Careful. Not possessive. Not claiming. Just resting. He traces a slow line over you.

“You’re going to be such a great mom,” he murmurs, voice softer now, no teasing edge. 

You try to smile, but something in your chest tightens. Because this is the part that blurs things. The domestic quiet. The way he looks at you like you’re already a family. His thumb makes another slow pass across your stomach. And instead of leaning into it, you clear your throat gently.

“So,” you say, keeping your tone steady, “have you thought about newborn care classes yet?”

It shifts the air. There’s a small pause where he looks at you differently, like he understands what you’re doing. He doesn’t push. Instead, his palm settles flat against your stomach, steady.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “I’ve been looking. There’s one in Nags Head. Small classes. Good reviews.”

Your shoulders relax.

“Okay. We should probably tour a couple. And maybe take that infant safety and CPR class Becca mentioned.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re really making me do all of it, huh?”

You arch a brow. “It’s your kid too.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. Softer now. Thoughtful. He steps back just enough to give you space. “I’ll sign up. Whatever we need.”

We. Your chest warms, steadier this time. He lets his hand fall from your stomach slowly, respecting the shift. He moves toward the sink, picking up the dish towel again even though everything’s already clean. You sit on the stool, watching him. After a minute he glances over his shoulder.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

And you are. Because this feels different. Deliberate. After a while, you slide off the stool.

“I should probably head home,” you say softly.

He shuts the water off immediately. “I’ll walk you out.” Of course he will.

He grabs your keys from the counter before you can, holding them loosely as he follows you to the door. When he hands them back, his fingers brush yours, lingering just a second too long. On the porch, the mid afternoon air is cooler. You breathe it in.

“Text me when you get home,” he says.

“I will.”

He hesitates like he wants to say something else. Instead, he steps forward. For a split second you think he’s going to kiss you. He doesn’t. He just bends slightly and presses his lips to your forehead. Soft. Gentle. Safe.

“For her,” he murmurs.

You swallow. “Goodbye, Rafe.”

You walk down the steps before you can second guess yourself. When you get in your car and look back, he’s still standing there. Hands in his pockets. Watching you go. Choosing stability.

-

Becca slides a mug of tea across the kitchen counter toward you, her expression already set in that older-sister seriousness she only pulls out when she thinks you’re about to make a mistake. “I think it’s a bad idea,” she says plainly. “I mean, obviously coparenting and getting along for my future goddaughter? That’s good. That’s healthy. But I wouldn’t let him be anything past that. You’re on your healing journey, remember?”

You left Tannyhill and came straight here. Didn’t even stop at home. You wrap your hands around the mug, letting the warmth sink into your palms, a sharp contrast to the blast of air conditioning in her kitchen.

“Becca,” you say carefully, “just because we’re being cordial… friends… doesn’t mean it’s going anywhere past that.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Friends,” she repeats like it’s a foreign word.

Before she can continue, Beau walks in, opening the fridge and squinting inside like something new might’ve magically appeared since the last time he checked. “What’s going anywhere past what?” he asks, already reaching for leftover pizza.

“None of your business,” Becca shoots back immediately. “Especially since you like to run and tell your friends things.”

He pauses mid-bite and turns to her with the most genuinely confused expression you’ve ever seen on Beau’s face. “What are you talking about?”

You lift your brows at him slowly. “How did Rafe know she kicks when I eat donuts?”

You already know the answer. Rafe told you himself, almost sheepishly. Beau makes that unmistakable “oh no” face, the one that says he realizes he’s been caught before he even tries to defend himself.

“To be fair,” he starts, scratching at his blonde curls, the complete opposite of Becca’s dark ones, “I ran into him at the bar. We were just talking. You came up. He was asking how you were and shit like that.”

“Shit like what?” you press, leaning forward slightly as you take a sip of tea.

He hesitates. Actually hesitates. His face twists like he’s weighing how much trouble the truth will get him in. “He was just… curious,” Beau finally says. “Asking how you were doing. If you were sleeping okay. If you were still craving sweets.” He shrugs. “That’s really all we could talk about before we got interrupted by Topper and Kelce.” He rolls his eyes. “Aren’t they like eighteen and nineteen? How are they even allowed in that bar?”

“You know how it is here,” Becca mutters. “They only care about money. They’d sell beers to toddlers if someone tipped enough.”

But you barely hear her, because Beau’s words are still hanging in the air. If you were sleeping okay.

You look down at your tea. That’s not casual curiosity. That’s someone who’s paying attention. Becca watches you closely. Too closely.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” she says gently now. Not sharp. Not accusatory. “He doesn’t get to suddenly care now that you’re carrying his baby. He doesn’t get boyfriend privileges without doing boyfriend work.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m not giving him boyfriend privileges.”

“Are you sure?” she asks softly.

That one lands harder. Because you think about his hand on your stomach. The way he stepped back when you changed the subject. The way he didn’t push. You swallow. “We’re just trying to be stable,” you say. “For her.”

Becca studies your face for a long second. “I just don’t want you confusing stability with hope,” she says quietly. “Those are two different things.”

The kitchen falls silent. Even Beau doesn’t have anything to add to that. And that’s when you realize this isn’t just about Rafe. It’s about whether you trust yourself not to fall again. Becca starts talking about something else. Beau finally finds something else in the fridge that satisfies him. The conversation shifts.

But you don’t. You’re still sitting there, fingers curled around your mug long after the tea stops steaming. The words replay in your head. Not Are you still mad at me? Not Is she seeing anyone? Not even Does she talk about me? If you were sleeping okay. You press your palm lightly over your belly. She shifts faintly beneath your hand, like she’s reminding you she’s there. Like she always does when your mind starts running ahead of you.

“You’re overthinking,” Becca says gently, noticing your silence.

“Am not,” you mumble automatically.

She gives you a look that says she knows you better than that.

“I just…” you trail off. You don’t even know how to finish the sentence.

You just what?

Miss him?

Believe him?

Want it to work?

Want it not to hurt again?

You sigh and push your chair back slightly. “I’m not trying to go backwards,” you say finally. And that’s the truth. “I just want things to be calm. Stable. For her.”

Becca softens. “And they can be,” she says. “Just don’t lose yourself trying to make it peaceful.”

You nod. Because that’s the real fear, isn’t it? Not that he’ll hurt you again. But that you’ll slowly bend yourself into something smaller just to keep everything steady. A few minutes later you’re standing in her driveway, the evening air warmer than her kitchen ever was. Beau shouts a distracted “Drive safe!” from inside. Becca hugs you tight.

“If he does anything stupid,” she murmurs into your hair, “I’m keying his SUV.”

You laugh softly. “Not the SUV too.”

When you pull away, she searches your face one last time like she’s checking for cracks. There aren’t any. But there are questions. You get in your car and sit there for a moment before starting it. The neighborhood is quiet. Distant waves. Cicadas humming. Outer Banks at night, calm on the surface, unpredictable underneath. You rest both hands on the steering wheel. Then one drifts down to your stomach. You inhale. You don’t feel reckless. You don’t feel swept away. You feel cautious. And maybe that’s growth. You start the engine.

As you pull out of the driveway, you tell yourself something steady. Something safe. I can want stability.

I can want him to be better. That doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten who I am. And for the first time in a long time, the hope doesn’t feel wild. It feels measured. Which almost scares you more.

The drive home is quiet. By the time you pull into your driveway, the sky has shifted into that deep blue just before night fully settles in. The porch light clicks on automatically as your car gets close, casting a warm glow over the front steps and the edges of the yard. You sit there for a moment, engine idling, hands still resting on the steering wheel. Your hand drifts down to your stomach without thinking.

“She just wants us to be careful,” you murmur quietly. “That’s all.”

There’s a faint, slow movement beneath your palm. Not a kick. More like a stretch.

It makes your lips curve. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

You cut the engine and step out, the evening air wrapping around you. It’s cooler now, softer. Your back aches slightly from the drive and you stretch once before heading up the steps and inside.

The house is exactly how you left it. Blankets folded over the couch. A glass of water still sitting on the coffee table. The faint scent of the candle you burned earlier lingering in the air.

You slip off your shoes by the door and head into the kitchen, filling another glass of water. You lean against the counter, taking a slow sip, letting yourself settle.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out, expecting Becca.

It’s not. Rafe.

Rafe: Get home safe?

You blink at the screen for a second, then type back.

You: I did. Thank you, Rafe.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Rafe: No… thank you.

Another message follows.

Rafe: I really needed today.

You stare at the words longer than you mean to, your fingers still wrapped around your glass.

It’s simple. But it isn’t light. You set your phone down on the counter for a second, exhaling as you try to figure out what to say without making it more than it is.

Or less. You pick it back up.

You: Same here. It was nice.

The typing bubble pops up. Disappears. Comes back. Then nothing. A second later, he reacts to your message with a heart. Seen. That’s it. The conversation settles. You set your phone down again and take another sip of water, your eyes drifting toward the small stack of baby books on the dining table. The house is quiet again. But it doesn’t feel empty.

You push off the counter and walk into the living room, picking up one of the books and flipping it open, scanning the page without really reading it. Just letting your mind slow down. A few minutes later, your phone buzzes again. Becca.

Becca: Are you doing anything Saturday afternoon? You glance at the screen.

You: Not that I know of. Why?

There’s a pause before her reply comes through.

Becca: Just wondering.

You narrow your eyes slightly. Becca never just wonders. Before you can type anything else, another message pops up.

Becca: Also don’t make plans.

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you set your phone down.

“Okay,” you murmur to yourself. “That’s not suspicious at all.”

Whatever she’s planning, you’ll find out soon enough. For now, the house settles around you again. Calm. Familiar. And for the first time in a while, the quiet doesn’t feel heavy. It just feels like life continuing.

-

By Wednesday, the weather turns warmer again. You’re in the backyard when he pulls up. You don’t hear the text notification first. You hear the SUV. That low, familiar rumble rolling down your driveway while you’re crouched beside the raised garden bed Becca insisted on helping you plant earlier that spring. You straighten slowly, brushing dirt from your gloves as the engine cuts off and the driver’s door opens. Rafe steps out, walking around the front of the truck. He’s holding a tote bag from some store, filled enough that the sides are stretched slightly. A rolled-up yoga mat sticks out of the top.

“Hey,” he calls, easy, like this isn’t the first time he’s shown up unannounced.

“Hey,” you answer, pushing a piece of hair back behind your ear.

He stops a few feet away, glancing down at the half-turned soil. “You gardening now?”

“Don’t make fun,” you say, already smiling a little. “Apparently it’s good for stress.”

He lifts his hands slightly. “Wasn’t making fun.” His eyes flick down to your stomach for a second before he holds the bag out toward you.

“I stopped by that yoga place earlier,” he says. “The one you used to go to all the time. They had a bunch of stuff on sale. Figured you’d probably want it for your prenatal classes.”

You take the bag from him, surprised by the weight. You peek inside. Candles. Soft socks. A new tumbler. Folded fabrics. Small things, but thoughtful. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say, looking back up at him.

“I know.” There’s no expectation in it. No waiting. Just a shrug.

“Figured you could use it,” he adds. “Stay… flexible or whatever.” A small smirk tugs at his mouth.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you set the bag down on the patio table, but you can’t quite hide the smile that comes with it. For a second, neither of you says anything.The air smells faintly like salt and dirt. The sun sits lower now, casting everything in that soft late-afternoon glow.

“You been feeling okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Mostly just tired.”

He nods once, like that makes sense. Like he expected it. Then he glances back toward his truck.

“I won’t keep you,” he says. “Just wanted to drop that off.”

That catches you off guard. You expected him to linger. To find a reason. But instead, he turns and starts walking back toward the driveway.

“Rafe,” you call.

He turns, one hand already on the truck door, brows lifting slightly.

“Thanks,” you say.

He nods once. “Yeah.” He starts to get in.

“Rafe!” Your voice carries before you can stop it.

He pauses again, looking back at you. You lift your hand to block the sun from your eyes as you take a few steps closer, your heart picking up just enough for you to notice it.

“Do you… want to stay for dinner?”

------

You sigh, locking your phone and staring out at the blur of houses passing by. You’re being stubborn, you know that. Anyone with half a brain could see it. You and Rafe had talked. Slowly. Carefully. You’d smoothed over the worst of it. You’d even agreed to try being friends. But standing in Tannyhill again? Walking up to his door like nothing ever happened? You weren’t sure you were ready for that.

“I don’t think it’s necessary to go over to his house just to get my mail,” you say, crossing your arms. “What if he was a complete stranger and stole my package because it got delivered to the wrong address? USPS wouldn’t know that. They should just send me a new one.” You know it doesn’t make sense. You know the logic falls apart if anyone thinks about it for more than five seconds. But you say it anyway.

Becca deadpans. “Yeah. Totally their fault because you forgot to change the shipping address. Horrible customer service.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, rolling your eyes, still searching for literally any solution that doesn’t involve Rafe Cameron’s front porch.

“Just go get it,” she says. “I’ll come with you. Hell, we could swing by right now.”

You shake your head, then pause. “He’s out with Topper and Kelce right now,” you blurt, before you can stop yourself.

Becca glances at you. “Ew,” she says immediately. “I hate that you know that.”

“Ew,” you reply, laughing despite yourself. “So do I.”

She pulls into her driveway, the tires crunching over gravel. Your eyes immediately snag on the unfamiliar car parked behind your own- nice, sleek, very obviously rented.

“What the f-” Becca cuts herself off, exhaling slowly. Her anger management classes are clearly working.

You squint at the car as you both unbuckle and step out. Beau is still living with Becca- something about the business guy being tied up with other responsibilities and not being able to follow through on their little deal yet. You and Becca had both clocked it as suspicious, but neither of you had said anything.

“Beau probably just has someone over,” you say, shrugging as you climb the steps to the porch, trying to ignore the small, unfamiliar knot forming in your stomach. You reach for the door anyway.

The smell of pizza and wings hits you immediately when the door opens, warm and greasy and familiar. The baby gives a faint kick in response, like they smell it too. You instinctively rest a hand over your belly as you step inside.

Becca follows behind you, and your eyes drift toward the living room out of habit- and then you freeze for a second when you see him. The cute guy from New York.

Your heart does an annoying little leap before you can stop it. Immediately, you become hyper-aware of yourself- the post-yoga sweat clinging to your skin, your flushed cheeks, your hair pulled into a messy bun that gave up halfway through class. Of course today is the day you wore an oversized T-shirt and mismatched athletic shorts instead of one of the cute sets Becca convinced you to buy.

Jessie. That was his name.He’s sitting on the couch, a pizza box open on the coffee table, looking slightly caught off guard by your sudden entrance. Which would make sense- Beau probably didn’t bother to mention he was temporarily living with his sister. That felt very Beau.

Becca pauses just behind you, equally surprised. “Oh—hi?” she says.

Jessie stands quickly, wiping his hands on his pants as he walks toward you both, polite and a little unsure. He extends his hand. Becca shakes it first, then you do.

“Nice to see you ladies again,” he says.

His handshake is firm but you return it politely anyway.

“You as well,” you say with a small smile.

He turns back to Becca, then pauses when he notices the rounded shape under her shirt. His eyes flick briefly between her stomach and yours, clearly trying to process what he’s seeing.

“No, this was not here when we met,” Becca says immediately.

Jessie lets out a quiet, confused laugh.

“Why are you walking around with a fake belly again?” Beau calls from the couch, talking with his mouth full of pizza like a complete animal.

“I couldn’t sit in y/n’s prenatal yoga class without having something to show for it,” Becca says, already marching toward the coffee table. “Give me some pizza.”

She grabs a slice without hesitation, then turns to you and makes an exaggerated, high-pitched noise, silently asking if you want one too.

You hesitate, shifting your weight. “Actually… I’m gonna head out,” you say. “I need to figure out this package situation.”

Becca nods, already chewing. “Okay, love you.”

“Love you too,” you reply, smiling.

You turn back to Jessie. “Can you let me out? My car’s trapped.”

“Yeah- of course,” he says immediately.

You step back outside, grabbing your bag from Becca’s convertible before sliding into your own car. Jessie jogs over to move his rental, backing it out of the driveway so you can leave.

For a second, you watch him through the windshield- calm, polite, easy in a way that doesn’t demand anything from you. He gives you a small nod once the driveway is clear.

You lift your hand in thanks and pull out, heading back toward your house, the late afternoon sun stretching long shadows across the road.

You get home and head straight for your bedroom, dropping your bag and keys onto the floor without thinking. The quiet of the house settles around you like a heavy blanket. Your muscles feel tight, your skin sticky from yoga and the long day, and suddenly a shower feels less like a want and more like a necessity. You undress quickly and step under the hot water, letting it run over your shoulders and down your back. For a few minutes, you just stand there, eyes closed, breathing. Letting the steam soften the edges of the day. Letting your mind go blank.

When you finally step out, wrapping yourself in a towel, you feel lighter. You move through the rest of your routine on autopilot- lotion, coconut oil worked into your skin, undergarments, brushing through your hair slowly to avoid pulling. You stare at your reflection for a moment, noticing the subtle but undeniable changes in your body. The roundness of your stomach. The softness in your face. Then you dress. A once-perfect fitted graphic T-shirt that now sits like a baby tee over your belly, paired with jorts you never imagined yourself wearing until pregnancy comfort overruled personal style. After slicking your hair back into a bun, you add small touches of jewelry -earrings, rings, bracelets, a necklace- just enough to feel like yourself again.

Keys. Phone. Wallet. Post office. You get in your car and start driving.

The roads are familiar, quiet in the late afternoon. Your mind drifts somewhere between nothing and everything- Jessie in Becca’s living room, Owen’s steady voice in the coffee shop, the baby kicking at the smell of pizza, the conversation with Rafe two months ago.

You’re halfway there before you realize you’re not going to the post office. Your hands turn the wheel before your brain catches up. That turn. The one that has never led to anything simple. Before you can stop yourself, autopilot carries you all the way to Tannyhill.

You bite your lip as you pull into the driveway, nerves buzzing in your chest. The package was delivered days ago- obviously it isn’t still sitting on the porch. You don’t even know why you’re nervous. You’re just grabbing something and leaving. That’s all.

You cut the engine and sit there for a moment, staring at the house. Then you climb out and walk up the steps to the porch. You’re not staying. Just leaving a message on the camera.

You press the doorbell. The ring lights up. “Hey, Rafe. Um… you’re probably not home, but I accidentally had a package delivered here and I kind of need it soon. So if you can just… reach out when you have time to-”

The door swings open. Rafe stands there in a black T-shirt, chest rising and falling like he ran to the door. His hair is slightly grown out a little, his expression caught between surprise and relief.

“Oh- hey. I didn’t know you were here,” you say quickly, pointing toward the Ring camera. “I was just leaving a message.”

“It’s fine. Come in.” He steps aside.

“Actually, I just-”

“No, I insist.” His voice is soft. Tired. Not demanding like before.

After a small pause, you step inside.

The house smells clean -lemons and fresh cleaning supplies- like he’s been trying to keep busy. You step to the side so he can close the door behind you. He lingers there for a second, hand still on the doorknob, eyes closed as he pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s fighting off a headache.

You couldn’t lie- he looked really good right now. Softer somehow. Worn down in a way that made him seem more human than untouchable.

“You were, uh… leaving a message?” he asks, still standing there, voice slightly distant.

Your brows knit together instinctively. You almost ask if he’s okay. Almost. Instead, you answer.

“Yeah… I forgot to change my delivery address on Amazon to my place. My package got sent here instead.” Your hand rests automatically over your belly as you speak.

His eyes open, immediately drawn to the gesture. Then they shift around the house as he thinks.

“Oh…” he says, letting out a small laugh, eyes closing again for a second. It’s nice hearing that sound. After everything, it feels unfamiliar in the best way.

“Oh?” you reply, one eyebrow lifting.

“The crib?” he asks, blue eyes finding yours again.

You nod slowly. “Yeah… how did you know I ordered a crib?” You put a hand on your hip, pretending to scold him.

“I opened it. Come on.” He jerks his head toward the stairs and starts walking.

You scoff, but you follow. “You realize opening someone else’s mail is illegal, right?”

He glances back with a faint smirk. “You gonna press charges?” He knows you won’t. That’s the annoying part.

“I could,” you counter, climbing the stairs behind him, slower than you’d like to be. Your breathing gets heavier by the time you reach the top.

He turns to wait for you. “I could’ve carried you, y’know,” he says with a quiet chuckle.

“I’d rather not,” you reply seriously.

He doesn’t push it. Instead, he walks toward the room that was supposed to be the nursery.

“It’s in here,” he says, pushing the door open before scratching the back of his head.

You step inside. The room looks almost exactly like it did the last time you were here- the night everything fell apart. Same walls. Same everything. But not quite the same.

There’s a small blue stuffed animal sitting carefully on the mattress of the crib frame. The crib frame you bought. Your eyes slowly move from it to him.

“Rafe,” you say calmly, turning toward him with a tight, polite smile.

“Mhmm?” he replies, completely clueless, eyebrows raised with that innocent expression you used to love.

“Why is my crib frame… built?”

“Oh.” He walks into the room, placing a hand on it like he’s proud. “I thought I’d build it for you. Surprise you.”

He smiles down at it before noticing your expression. His posture straightens immediately. For a second, you see the easygoing version of him again- the one who annoyed you and charmed you in equal measure. The one who made everything feel simple, even when it wasn’t.

The only thing you can do is laugh. He laughs too, confused but relieved. Then reality returns. You groan, stepping into the room beside him. “I can’t get this home in my little convertible.”

He sighs, like that detail is only just now occurring to him. “Shit,” he mutters.

“You’re gonna have to break it down,” you say, hand resting on your hip.

“I’m not touching that shit again,” he replies immediately, dropping to the floor and leaning his back against the crib.

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and slowly lower yourself down beside him, one hand cradling your belly. The room goes quiet for a moment. Not uncomfortable. Just… full.

Rafe glances at your stomach again, more carefully this time. “She kicking today?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Earlier. At the smell of pizza.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “Sounds like her mom.”

Another pause settles between you- calmer than before, but fragile.For the first time in a long time, you’re sitting next to each other without fighting, without crying, without trying to fix something already broken. Just sitting.

“So how am I supposed to get this home?” you ask, looking from the crib to him.

Rafe scratches the back of his neck, thinking. “I can rent a truck and bring it to your place,” he says. “Or… you could come by another time and I’ll help you load it into whatever you’ve got.” He shrugs, casual but careful, like he’s making sure the offer doesn’t sound like pressure.

You nod slowly, considering it.

“That… works for me,” you admit.

It’s strange- how normal this feels. Sitting on the nursery floor together, talking about logistics instead of heartbreak.

“I’ll rent the truck,” he adds quickly. “Less work for you.” You glance at him, noticing the shift. The old Rafe would’ve turned this into an argument about control or pride. This version just… solves the problem.

“Okay,” you say. “Thank you.”

The words sit between you for a moment. He looks down at the floor, fingers tracing the grain in the wood again-  that nervous habit you remember so well.

“I’ve been trying,” he says quietly.

You don’t ask what he means. You already know.

“I can tell,” you reply.

And you can. It’s in the way he keeps his voice level. The way he gives you space. The way he looks at you now-  not like you’re something he might lose, but something he already did.

“I started therapy,” he adds after a moment, still not looking at you. “After… everything.”

That makes you turn. “Really?”

He nods once. “Twice a week at first. Now once.”

You let out a small breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “That’s good, Rafe.”

He shrugs again, but this time it’s smaller. “I didn’t like the person I was becoming,” he admits. “And I didn’t like that I hurt you. Or Sarah. Or anyone.”

The honesty lands gently instead of heavily. Months ago, this conversation would’ve been impossible.

“I’ve changed too,” you say, almost to yourself.

He looks over. “Yeah?”

You nod, hand resting over your belly. “I had to. I don’t get to fall apart from just anything anymore. There’s someone depending on me now.” Your voice is steady- not sad, not resentful. Just true.

“And… I stopped waiting for you to be who I needed you to be,” you continue. “That was the hardest part.”

He swallows, nodding like he understands. “You deserved better than who I was,” he says.

You don’t argue with him. That’s new too. The late-afternoon light filters through the nursery window, stretching across the floor between you.

“She’s gonna be really loved,” Rafe says quietly, glancing at the crib.

Your throat tightens. “Yeah,” you whisper. “She is.”

Another comfortable silence settles in — the kind that used to exist between you before things got complicated.

“You remember when we argued for like two hours about crib colors?” he says suddenly.

You laugh. “You wanted black.”

“It was matte black,” he defends.

“For a babygirl,” you remind him.

“It was modern.”

You shake your head, smiling. “We’ve grown up,” you say.

He nods. “Yeah. We really have.”

For the first time, it doesn’t feel like losing each other erased everything good you ever had. It feels like those good parts just… changed shape.

Not lovers anymore. Not strangers either. Something quieter. Something steadier.

Rafe slowly pushes himself to his feet, then offers you his hands again- gentler this time, waiting.

You take them. And when he helps you up, it feels different than before. Not electric. Not painful.

Just familiar.

The walk to the front door is quiet, but not awkward- the kind of quiet that settles easily between two people who no longer feel the need to fill every space with words. Your footsteps fall in rhythm beside his, the soft creak of the wooden floor and the distant hum of the refrigerator the only sounds in the house.He reaches the door first, pulling it open for you without thinking. The late afternoon air drifts in, warm and salted from the ocean.

You turn back to him, lingering in the doorway. “Saturday work for you?” you ask.

Rafe rubs the back of his neck, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “Uh… I have a few clients I need to deal with, but I’ll try to clear my schedule for it.”

He says it casually, but there’s something underneath- an effort that didn’t used to be there. Once upon a time, he wouldn’t have adjusted anything for you. Now he does it without announcing it. Your feet don’t move. You stand there, fingers loosely wrapped around your keys, like you’re remembering how to leave.

There’s a small pause before you speak again. “Uh… sorry for the interruption again,” you say quietly.

He shakes his head immediately, almost too fast. “No- no. It’s okay. I was just laying down anyway.”

You nod, looking down for a second, then back up at him. The moment stretched- not uncomfortable, just unfinished.

“Well…” you say, drawing in a small breath. “I’ll see you Saturday.” Your feet finally cooperate, stepping backward onto the porch. Slowly. Like you’re giving him time to say something else if he wants to.

“Yeah…” he says, softer now. “Saturday. I’ll see you.”

You turn and walk toward your car, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You can feel it -the weight of his gaze following you- but it doesn’t make you anxious anymore. It just feels… steady. Safe.

When you open your car door, you glance back without meaning to. He’s still standing in the doorway.

Not tense. Not guarded. Just watching. You give him a small, almost shy smile before getting in and starting the engine. Rafe stays there until your car disappears down the road, the screen door slowly swinging shut behind him with a quiet click. For the first time in a long time, the silence doesn’t feel like distance. It feels like patience.

-

Days later, you step onto the beach just past your backyard path, sandals dangling from your fingers. One of the biggest selling points of this place had been the proximity to the water- the idea that you could walk out here whenever your mind got too loud.

Today, though, the waves are loud enough for everyone. It’s a swell day. The kind surfers wait weeks for. Which means there will be no solitude. No quiet meditation. Just music, laughter, engines, and the occasional whoop from someone catching the perfect wave.

Your white midi dress sways around your calves as you settle into the sand. The sun warms your shoulders immediately. A few teens are already setting up-  towels shaken out dramatically, coolers dropped, speakers blasting something bass-heavy and careless. You don’t mind. There’s something comforting about watching life happen around you. You’re halfway through absentmindedly drawing circles in the sand when you see it.

The orange and white camper van. You don’t even have to squint to know who it belongs to.

It rolls up not too far from where you’re sitting, tires crunching over loose shells. You consider moving -just to avoid awkwardness- but you don’t. You’ve done enough avoiding in your life. The van door slides open and they spill out like they always do- loud, overlapping, alive.

Pope first, already mid-sentence about something that sounds mildly educational. JJ right behind him, jumping down like gravity is optional. Cleo smooth and observant. Kiara pushing her sunglasses up into her hair. John B climbs out of the driver’s seat like he owns the sand itself. And then Sarah. She steps out of the passenger side, blonde hair catching in the wind. She’s the first to notice you.

You don’t look away this time.

You offer her a small smile, pulling your feet closer into the sand. She pauses for half a second -like she’s surprised- then smiles back. A real one. Soft. Almost relieved. She lifts her hand in a wave.

Before she can say anything, John B calls her name, gesturing to the surfboards strapped to the roof. “Babe, I need you.” She rolls her eyes affectionately and jogs over to him, and you turn your attention back to the water.

Not because you don’t like them. But because you don’t want them to feel obligated. You know what it’s like to be the outsider orbiting someone else’s center. You won’t make them shift their gravity for you.

The waves crash, blue and endless.

You’re tracing the outline of a small heart in the sand -not thinking about why- when a shadow falls over you. You squint up against the sun.

Sarah. Her hair whips across her shoulder. She’s wearing a blue plaid crop top and white shorts, barefoot already, anklet glinting.

“Hey,” she says, smiling that classic Sarah Cameron smile — the one that’s disarming and warm all at once.

You smile back instinctively. “Hey.” You dust the sand from your hands, shielding your eyes from the glare.

“Mind if I sit?” she asks, pointing to the empty space beside you.

You hesitate only because you didn’t expect it. “Not at all,” you say quickly. “Please.”

She drops down beside you, tucking one leg under herself. For a moment, it’s quiet. The kind that isn’t awkward- just new.

“How are you?” she asks, eyes on the horizon.

You think about giving her the easy answer. “I’m… okay,” you say instead. Honest. Not dramatic. Just real.

She nods like she understands more than you’re saying. “And the baby?” she asks gently, finally glancing down at your stomach.

You soften immediately. “She’s healthy.”

Sarah’s entire face lights up. “A girl?” she gasps, turning fully toward you. “Are you serious?”

You nod, laughing a little at her excitement.

“Oh my God,” she breathes. “That’s- that’s amazing.”

Her hand lifts instinctively toward your stomach, then hesitates mid-air. “Can I?”

You shake your head immediately- not no, but disbelief that she’d even question it. “Of course.” You guide her hand to your belly. Her palm is warm. Careful. Almost reverent.

She goes still. And right on cue -like she knows she has an audience- your daughter kicks. Once. Sarah’s eyes widen. Twice. She lets out a little surprised laugh. Three times.

She gasps, looking up at you like she’s just witnessed something sacred. “Oh my God,” she giggles. “She’s strong.”

You laugh with her, your hand covering hers instinctively. “She’s been like that all morning.”

Sarah keeps her hand there a second longer, her expression softening into something quieter. “She’s gonna be so loved,” she says without thinking.

It hits you harder than it should, reminding you of Rafe saying the same thing the other day. Before you can respond, you hear JJ shouting something about sunscreen and Pope arguing back about SPF levels.

“Sarah, come on!” John B calls. “We’re setting up.”

She looks back over her shoulder- then back at you. There’s a flicker of hesitation. Like she doesn’t want to just walk away.

“You don’t have to-” you start, nodding toward them.

“I’ll be right back,” she says quickly, standing. “We’re grilling later. You should hang out with us.”

You blink. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t,” she says immediately. No hesitation. No politeness. Just truth. “You’re not intruding.”

There’s something intentional in the way she says it. She jogs back to them, and this time when she reaches the group, Kiara glances over at you. Then Cleo. JJ shields his eyes dramatically like he’s scouting enemy territory.

You almost roll your eyes.

A minute later, JJ jogs halfway over and calls out, “You just gonna sit there or are you eating with us later?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation?”

“It’s a warning,” he shouts back. “I’m cooking.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Then I probably should settle with anything you’re not cooking,” you reply.

He points at you like that’s acceptable. You sit with your knees pulled to your chest, watching them from a distance at first. The waves are good today -tall, clean, rolling in steady lines- and they take full advantage of it. John B and JJ paddle out first, shouting over the wind, while Pope and Kiara wrestle with the grill behind the van. Cleo stands near the shoreline, arms crossed, laughing every time JJ wipes out dramatically.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been watching until Sarah jogs past you again, barefoot in the sand.

“You know,” she says, slowing to a stop, hands on her hips, “it’s kind of weird that you’re sitting over here like a lifeguard instead of with us.”

You smile faintly. “I didn’t want to intrude.”

Sarah snorts. “Intrude? Please.”

Before you can protest, she reaches down and takes your wrist, tugging gently. “Come on.”

You let her pull you to your feet, brushing sand off your dress as she leads you toward the van.

JJ is the first to notice. “Well, look who finally decided to join civilization,” he says, pushing wet hair out of his face.

“She was spying on us,” Sarah announces.

“I was not spying,” you laugh.

John B immediately stands and grabs a folding chair, planting it in the sand near the grill. “Here,” he says casually. “Sit.”

You hesitate, but he’s already walking away like it’s not a big deal, so you sit. It feels… strangely easy. Like you’ve done this before.

Cleo hands you a paper plate with watermelon slices and chips without asking. “You gotta eat,” she says. “Pregnant people are always hungry, yeah?”

“Constantly,” you admit with a small laugh.

JJ walks over and hands you a can without looking. “Drink?”

You take it automatically, then pause. Beer.

Pope immediately smacks JJ in the back of the head. “She’s pregnant, dumbass.”

JJ’s eyes widen. “Oh- shit. Sorry. Sorry!” He snatches it back and replaces it with a can of juice from the cooler. “Here. Non-irresponsible beverage.”

You laugh -really laugh- and it surprises you. “It’s okay,” you say. “Honestly, that tracks.”

Pope shakes his head. “He’s been like this.”

“Since birth,” John B adds.

“Rude,” JJ mutters, dropping into the sand.

The conversation flows around you easily after that. Nobody makes it weird. Nobody treats you like glass. Kiara asks how far along you are. Cleo asks if you’ve picked a name. Sarah keeps smiling every time you talk about the baby. And somehow, you find yourself talking more than you expected. About the house. About prenatal yoga. About how you didn’t think you’d end up back here.

Cleo leans back on her hands, studying you. “You’re tougher than you look,” she says casually.

You raise an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve been through some stuff,” she replies. “And you’re still here.”

Kiara nods in agreement. Sarah bumps her shoulder into yours.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “You are.”

Your throat tightens unexpectedly. You glance out at the water where John B and JJ are paddling back toward shore, shouting to each other like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.

By four-thirty, the sky starts shifting. It happens subtly at first -the bright blue fading into something heavier. The wind picks up, stronger now, tugging at towels and whipping loose sand against bare legs. The waves grow darker, angrier. You notice it before they do. You’re mid-conversation with Kiara when a distant rumble rolls across the water.

JJ, of course, cheers. “Storm swell!” he yells toward John B like this is Christmas morning.

“That is not storm swell,” Pope shouts back. “That is lightning.”

Another rumble follows, closer this time. Sarah looks up at the sky and winces. “Okay… maybe we should start packing.” The shift from relaxed to rushed happens instantly. John B jogs toward the van. JJ grabs boards. Kiara starts folding chairs. Cleo is already stuffing towels into a bag with military precision.

You stand too, instinctively helping- gathering paper plates, stacking empty cans, shaking sand off blankets.

“You don’t have to-” Sarah starts.

“I’m not helpless,” you reply lightly. You bend to grab the cooler at the same time Pope does.

He freezes. “You are absolutely not lifting that,” he says firmly.

“I can carry things,” you argue.

“You can carry a baby. That’s enough.”

Before you can protest, he takes it from your hands and motions for you to step back. “You supervise,” he adds.

You blink. “Supervise?”

“Yes,” Kiara chimes in, tossing you a blanket that was left out. “Stand there and look important.”

JJ runs past with two surfboards under his arm and nearly collides with you. “Whoa, future mother of the year, careful!”

Pope smacks him again. “You’re going to give her high blood pressure.”

“I don’t even know what that means!” JJ defends.

The first fat drop of rain hits your shoulder. Then another. Then the sky opens. It’s sudden and dramatic- sheets of rain pouring down, wind howling, sand sticking to wet skin. Everyone yells at once.

“Get the grill!”

“Close the back!”

“JJ MOVE!”

You laugh despite yourself as you jog toward the van, white dress now clinging slightly to your legs.

They pile inside in chaotic layers- wet limbs, tangled towels, JJ arguing that he absolutely should be the one to drive because he “drives better under pressure.”

“That’s literally when you drive worst,” Pope snaps.

John B tosses him the keys anyway.

“Shotgun!” JJ shouts.

“You’re driving!” Kiara yells.

You stand just outside the sliding door, rain soaking your hair now, heart pounding from the sudden energy of it all. “Where are you going?” you ask over the storm.

Everyone pauses. There’s a collective look between them.

“No one wants to drive back to the Chateau in this,” Sarah mutters.

“I’m not hydroplaning into the marsh,” Cleo adds.

JJ leans forward between the seats. “Unless we die. That would be kind of iconic.”

“Shut up,” Kiara says.

You hesitate for half a second. Then- “You can come to mine.”

They all turn to look at you.

“It’s literally right there,” you say, pointing vaguely toward your house through the curtain of rain. “You can dry off. I have a fireplace.”

“A fireplace?” JJ repeats.

“Yes.”

“Kook shit,” he mutters.

Sarah smiles immediately. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

There’s another crack of thunder, closer this time, and that settles it.

“Okay, we’re rerouting!” John B declares.

JJ grins. “To the pregnant sanctuary!”

You roll your eyes, climbing into the van with them, heart oddly warm despite the cold rain soaking through your dress.

As JJ pulls away, windshield wipers struggling against the downpour, you glance at Sarah. She bumps her shoulder lightly into yours. “Thanks,” she says quietly.

You just smile. The storm rages outside, but inside the van, it feels loud and alive and safe. By the time the van pulls into your driveway, the rain is coming down in sheets so thick you can barely see the dunes behind your house.. JJ cuts the engine and everyone just sits there for a second, listening to the storm hammer the roof of the van.

“Well,” Cleo says. “We live here now.”

You laugh, pushing the door open. “Come on.”

They spill out of the van in a messy, soaked cluster, sprinting across the short stretch of sand toward your front porch. Your dress is completely damp now, clinging to your knees as you fumble with your keys.

“Okay, okay,” you say, pushing the door open. “Shoes off- I’m serious.”

“You sound like Kie,” JJ mutters, already kicking off his sneakers.

They file inside, dripping water onto the entryway tile, shaking rain from their hair and clothes. The house feels instantly smaller -fuller- louder. Warmer. You flip on the lights.

“Wow,” Sarah says quietly, looking around.

It’s not a mansion. Not Tannyhill. But it’s beautiful in that lived-in, beach-house way- soft lighting, pale wood floors, cozy furniture, big windows looking out toward the ocean.

“Okay,” you say, moving into autopilot. “Sit. Anywhere. I’ll grab towels.”

You disappear down the hallway and return with an armful of towels, nearly dropping them as you reenter the living room. “Here,” you say, handing them out one by one. To Sarah. To Kiara. To Cleo. To John B. To Pope. To JJ, who dramatically wraps himself like a burrito.

“You look like a wet raccoon,” Kiara tells him.

“Sexy raccoon,” JJ corrects.

You toss a towel over your own shoulders, finally noticing how cold you are now that you’re out of the rain.The storm cracks loudly overhead, and everyone instinctively looks toward the windows.

“Fireplace?” you say. Six heads turn toward you. You point at it. “I don’t like lighting it.”

JJ stands immediately. “Say less.”

“Absolutely not,” Pope says, grabbing JJ’s hoodie and pulling him back down. “John B, come on.”

The two of them move toward the fireplace while you head for the kitchen. You fill the kettle with water, the familiar domestic motion calming your nerves.

Behind you, the living room fills with noise again- JJ narrating instructions, Kiara correcting him from the couch, Cleo laughing, Sarah asking if you’re okay.

Then- the click of flame. A soft crackle. Warm orange light spills across the living room walls. You turn to see it glowing. For a moment, you just stand there watching it. Something about it makes your chest tighten in a good way.

“You want help?” Sarah asks gently, appearing beside you in the kitchen.

“I’ve got it,” you say with a small smile. “Tea?”

She nods. Soon you’re moving around the kitchen, pulling mugs from cabinets, setting them on a large serving plate. The kettle whistles softly as the storm continues outside.

One by one, they gather around the living room again- wrapped in blankets now, sitting cross-legged on the floor or piled onto the couch.

JJ sits closest to the fire like a lizard seeking warmth. “You have a cool -storm night in- house,” he says.

“Thank you?” you reply, handing him a mug anyway. You pass tea around to everyone. Last one for yourself. Then you lower yourself carefully onto the couch, blanket around your shoulders, one hand instinctively resting on your belly. The room is quiet for a moment. Rain. Fire crackling. Mugs clinking. Home.

Kiara nudges your shoulder. “Your house is really nice.”

“Thanks.”

Cleo lifts her mug. “Best emergency shelter on the island.”

Sarah smiles at you from the armchair across the room. “Yeah,” she says softly. “It is.”

And you realize something quietly, deeply: You’re not hosting strangers anymore. You’re hosting friends.

Outside, thunder rolls across the ocean. Inside, you feel safe. The storm doesn’t let up. Rain rattles against the windows while the fire pops softly in the hearth, throwing warm light across everyone’s faces. The blankets you handed out are already claimed- JJ cocooned on the floor, Cleo leaning against the couch, Pope sitting cross-legged with his mug cradled in both hands. Kiara has tucked her feet under herself, and Sarah sits curled in the armchair like she belongs there.

You didn’t expect this. Not the comfort. Not the ease. JJ squints into his mug. “What kind of tea is this?”

“Chamomile,” you say.

He makes a face. “This tastes like warm grass.”

“It’s supposed to relax you,” Pope says.

“I don’t want to relax. I want pizza.”

“You just ate,” Kiara says.

“That was before the trauma of surfing in a hurricane.”

“It was not a hurricane,” John B says from the floor, leaning back against the couch.

“Speak for yourself, Captain.”

Cleo laughs, shaking her head. “You Pogues complain more than rich people,” she says.

“Impossible,” you reply automatically. That gets a laugh from everyone. You feel your shoulders drop a little more.

Sarah leans forward slightly, eyes flicking to your stomach. “Can she hear all this?” she asks.

You glance down at your belly, rubbing it gently. “I think so,” you say. “She kicks when there’s a lot of noise.”

JJ lights up immediately. “Oh, she’s gonna be a Pogue then.”

Pope groans. “Please don’t encourage him.”

“What?” JJ says. “We’re clearly her cool aunts and uncles.”

“You are absolutely not,” Kiara says.

“Too late,” JJ says. “I already decided.” He scoots closer, stopping a respectful distance away from you.

“Okay, listen, Baby Cameron,” he says toward your stomach. “If your mom ever says no to something, you come find Uncle JJ.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. “She’s definitely not doing that.”

Sarah is smiling now too- a real smile, not the careful ones she used to give you.

“What names do you like?” Kiara asks.

You hesitate. “I don’t know yet,” you admit. “It feels… big.” You don’t tell them about the name rafe gave you. Quinn.

“Yeah,” Sarah says softly. “I bet.”

Pope points his mug at JJ. “You are banned from suggesting names.”

“I wasn’t going to,” JJ says defensively.

“Liar.”

“Okay fine. Maverick.”

“No.”

“Storm.”

“No.”

“Boat.”

“Absolutely not.”

Cleo leans over. “Boat Cameron is crazy.”

John B stands and stretches. “Alright,” he says. “Storm’s slowing down.”

Everyone listens. The rain has softened to a steady drizzle. The sky outside is still gray, but calmer now.

Kiara checks her phone. “It’s almost six.”

Sarah stands slowly. “We should probably go.”

And something in your chest tightens a little at that. Not sadness. Just… noticing. JJ unwraps himself from the blanket dramatically.

“Your house is officially Pogues-approved,” he says.

“You’re welcome anytime,” you reply, and you mean it.

Pope points at you. “Next time we bring real food.”

“Please do,” you say.

Cleo squeezes your shoulder as she passes. Sarah lingers. Just for a second. “Thanks,” she says quietly. “For today.”

You nod. “Anytime.”

She smiles again, then follows the others out. The door closes behind them. The house goes quiet again. The fire still burns. The tea mugs sit half-empty. The blankets are draped everywhere. And the silence doesn’t feel lonely anymore. It feels peaceful. Tomorrow is Saturday.

-

When you wake up on the couch the next morning, the fireplace is still glowing faintly -embers instead of flames now, but warm enough to keep the room from feeling cold. A blanket is tangled around your legs. You blink toward the coffee table and grab your phone. 5:56 a.m.

Outside, the sky is a soft gray, the kind that makes the world feel hushed. Rain still falls, lighter now. Not the violent sheets from yesterday- just a steady, calming morning drizzle. The kind you’ve always liked. The kind that makes everything feel clean.

You sit up slowly, hand instinctively resting on your stomach.

“Good morning,” you murmur softly.

Upstairs, the house creaks the way it always does when the weather shifts. Familiar. Yours. After your shower, steam curling around the mirror, you towel off and dress in a simple sleep set- a baby pink tank and matching gauchos that skim comfortably over your growing belly. You brush through your curls and slick them back, letting them air-dry naturally. Slippers. A house coat. Skincare done in quiet, practiced motions.

You move through the house unhurried. A bowl of fresh fruit in one hand, you start straightening up downstairs. Sweeping stray sand from the hardwood floors. Mopping the entryway where everyone tracked in rainwater. Vacuuming the carpet where more sand somehow managed to hide. Gathering towels and blankets into the laundry basket.

There’s something deeply satisfying about cleaning up after a night like that. Proof people were here.

Proof you weren’t alone. You place the last abandoned tea mug into the dishwasher when the doorbell rings. You glance at the stove clock. 7:18 a.m.

Right on time. You dry your hands on a dish towel and make your way to the door. Through the peephole, you spot him- dark raincoat, hood up, shoulders slightly hunched against the drizzle. You pause. You’ve never seen him in a raincoat before.

Pulling back, you unlock the door and swing it open. He’s halfway through brushing rain off his sleeve when he looks up. Drops cling to the edges of his hood. His boots are damp. His face is neutral -almost guarded- until he registers the fact that you’re trying not to laugh.

“Hey- what?” he asks, brow furrowing.

You can’t hold it in. “I’ve never seen you wear a raincoat,” you say, reaching up to tug lightly at his hood. “You look kind of funny in it. You’re too tall. It makes you look like… a giant middle schooler.”

He blinks at you. Then huffs out a quiet laugh. “Wow. Good morning to you too.”

You step aside to let him in, still smiling- until your eyes drop. He doesn’t have the crib. Instead, he’s holding a suspiciously large rectangular box.

Your smile falters. “What happened to the bed?”

He steps inside, wiping his boots carefully on the mat before shrugging off the raincoat. His hair is slightly damp at the edges. “Couldn’t get it out of the doorframe,” he admits. “Measured wrong.”

You stare at him. “You measured wrong?”

He ignores that part. “So,” he continues, nudging the box upright against the wall, “I just bought you another one. Same brand. Very similar.  Easier assembly. Figured I’d build it at your place instead.”

You blink. “You… bought another crib?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. Toes off his boots. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

It’s not fine. It’s generous. It’s thoughtful. It’s something old Rafe would’ve complained about and new Rafe just… handled.

“Rafe-”

“If you don’t mind,” he adds quickly, glancing at you. “I won’t open it if you don’t want me to. I just thought- it’d be easier.” There’s no ego in it. No attitude. Just a quiet offer. You look at the box. Then at him. He looks tired. Not in a chaotic way. Just… worn. 

“Yeah,” you say softly. “That’s fine.”

“Upstairs?” he asks.

“Yeah. No point building it downstairs and hauling it up.”

“Good. Because I wasn’t carrying this twice.”

“You absolutely would’ve.”

He smirks. “Don’t push it.”

He carries the box up while you follow slower. When you reach the nursery, he sets it down in the middle of the room and looks around like he’s trying to picture it finished.

“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands once. “Let’s see how bad this is.”

He opens the box. Pieces. So many pieces.

You stare down at them. “That’s… excessive.”

“It’s wood and screws,” he says. “How hard can it be?”

He pulls out the instruction manual. You raise your eyebrows.

He glares at you. “I’m not guessing.”

“Oh, I was hoping you would. I love chaos.”

“Yeah, I know you do.”

You move closer and sit carefully on the rug while he spreads everything out.

“You’re not just supervising,” he says, glancing at you. “You’re helping.”

“I’m pregnant.”

“You can hold things.”

You gasp dramatically. “Manual labor?”

He slides a wooden rail toward you. “Hold that.”

You take it, pretending to struggle. “This is so heavy. I might faint.”

“If you faint, I’m leaving.”

“You wouldn’t.”

He pauses. “…I wouldn’t.”

You both feel it. But neither of you say anything about it. He kneels across from you, lining up one of the panels. “Okay, we need screw B.”

You look down at the pile of hardware. “Which one is screw B?”

He checks the manual. “…The one that looks exactly like screw A but slightly longer.”

“Helpful.” You start sorting them anyway.

“Don’t mix them up,” he warns.

“I won’t.” 

Thirty seconds later. “These are definitely mixed up.”

He closes his eyes briefly. “Unbelievable.”

You grin. “You said they look the same.”

He crawls closer, shoulder brushing yours as he inspects the screws in your hand. You’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.

“That’s A,” he says, taking one gently from your palm. “That’s B.”

“They’re twins.”

“They are not.”

“They are.”

He shakes his head but there’s a faint smile pulling at his mouth. You hand him the right one this time. He starts tightening it, but the angle’s awkward.

“Wait,” you say. “Let me hold it straighter.”

You shift onto your knees carefully, steadying the panel while he works. Your fingers brush his wrist for a second. Neither of you pull away immediately.

“Don’t strip it,” you murmur.

“Relax. I know how to use a screwdriver.”

“That didn’t sound convincing.”

He shoots you a look. “You’re talking a lot for someone who almost mixed up the screws.”

You grin. “Team effort.”

The first side finally stands upright. You both lean back slightly to admire it.

“It’s crooked,” you say.

“It’s not crooked.”

“It is.”

He squints at it. Steps back. Tilts his head. “…Okay, maybe a little.”

“I told you.”

“Don’t get smug.”

“I’m getting smug.”

He adjusts it carefully this time. You steady it again, closer now, both of you focused. The room is quiet except for the soft sound of rain beginning outside and the occasional clink of metal against wood.

After a few minutes, you sit back against the wall, catching your breath. “Okay,” you say. “Break.”

“We just started.”

“I’m morale support.”

“You’re complaining support.”

You reach over and lightly shove his shoulder.

He pretends to stumble dramatically. “Assaulting me now?”

“You’re so dramatic.”

He laughs- a real one. Not forced. You haven’t heard that in a long time. He looks around the nursery again while you rest.

“You picked this color yourself?” he asks casually.

“Yeah.”

“It’s good.”

You glance at him. “That’s high praise.”

“I have taste.”

“You have opinions.”

“Same thing.”

You watch him for a second while he organizes the remaining pieces. He’s focused, patient, not rushing.

“You’re weirdly calm about this,” you say.

“It’s a crib,” he shrugs. “Not a jet engine.”

“You got mad at one ikea shelf.”

“That shelf was defective.”

“It was not.”

“It absolutely was.”

You laugh softly. He finishes attaching the second side and motions for you.

“Come here.”

You move closer again.

“Hold that while I tighten this.”

You steady the rail and he leans in, careful, slower this time. When he’s done, he gives it a small shake to test it. Solid. You both look at it at the same time.

“That’s… actually good,” you say.

“Obviously.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

He smirks. You sit there for a moment, side by side on the nursery floor, looking at the crib like it’s something bigger than wood and screws.

“We built that,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

And that’s it. Just the two of you on the floor, hands dusty with sawdust, rain tapping at the window, something steady taking shape between you- even if neither of you are naming it yet.

Once the crib is finished, tightened, and tested for the third time -because he doesn’t trust anything after the first try- the two of you sit back on the nursery floor and just… look at it. It stands solid in the center now below the widow. Pale pink wood against soft walls. Real.

You exhale slowly. “We ate that,” you murmur.

“Mostly me,” he corrects lightly.

You roll your eyes. “I held things.”

“Heroic.”

You shift carefully, reaching toward the woven basket near the door- your so-called “basket of comfort.” It’s filled with folded throws and extra pillows you’ve been collecting, telling yourself they’re for her. Just in case. You pull one out now.

“Hey,” he says, watching you. “What are you doing?”

You pat the pillow before lowering yourself down onto the rug, easing it under your lower back with a quiet sigh of relief. “Getting my fifteen minutes of mandatory bedrest,” you say, already adjusting your hips slightly. “Doctor’s orders.”

He quirks an eyebrow, a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth. “On the floor?”

“It’s comfortable.”

“It’s hardwood.”

“There’s a rug.”

He shakes his head faintly but doesn’t argue.

You close your eyes, one arm resting loosely over your stomach. The nursery is quiet except for the faint tap of rain against the window. A few seconds pass. You can feel it. His stare. “You’re staring,” you say, eyes still closed, a small smile pulling at your lips.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Sorry.”

You crack one eye open. He’s still sitting cross-legged across from you, forearms resting loosely over his knees. His gaze isn’t on your face.

It’s on your stomach.

“Just…” He trails off, glancing away for a second like he’s trying to find words that won’t sound wrong. “A year ago I never would’ve…”

You open your eyes fully now. “Never would’ve what?” you ask gently.

He exhales slowly, looking around the room -at the crib, the half-open box, the scattered instruction manual- anywhere but you.

“I just didn’t think…” He pauses. Tries again. “I didn’t think this would be my life.”

There’s no resentment in it. No panic. Just disbelief.

You shift your arm so your hand rests fully over your belly now, thumb tracing absent circles.

“That’s not a bad thing,” you say quietly.

“No,” he answers immediately. Then softer, “It’s not.”

He looks at you again. At the curve of you. At the place where your body has changed in ways neither of you can ignore.

“It’s just weird,” he admits. “We’ve been through so much crap. And now there’s… this.”

You glance toward the crib. “This,” you echo.

He nods once. Silence stretches again- but it’s not tense. It’s heavy in a thoughtful way.

“You can touch if you want,” you say after a moment. Casual. Like it’s not a big deal. “She’s yours too, y’know.”

His eyes flick up to yours, surprised by how easy you said it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitates- not because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s careful now. Like he’s afraid of doing something wrong even in something this simple. Slowly, he shifts closer. Not hovering. Not crowding. Just enough. He reaches out, hand pausing a few inches above your stomach before finally settling there.

Warm. Steady. You watch his face instead of the contact.

He swallows slightly. “She’s bigger,” he murmurs.

“Yeah.. that happens.”

His thumb moves unconsciously, barely brushing the fabric of your tank. For a moment, nothing happens. Then-  A kick. Subtle but unmistakable. He freezes.

“Did you feel that?” you ask, though you already know.

His eyes widen just slightly. “Yeah.”

Another small movement under his palm. He lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“She’s strong.”

“That’s what Sarah said,” you reply without thinking.

He glances up at you, not bothered- just taking it in. “Good,” he says.

His hand stays there. Not possessive. Not claiming.Just present. The rain continues outside, steady and soft. And on the nursery floor, surrounded by half-folded cardboard and the faint scent of new wood, the two of you stay like that for a long moment- quiet, grounded, connected by something neither of you are trying to control anymore. Just parents. The two of you sit there for a few moments longer, neither of you speaking. Eventually, the moment runs its course.

You press your palms into the floor and start to sit up.

“Careful,” Rafe says immediately, already moving. He stands first, then offers both hands. You take them, letting him pull you to your feet. He dusts his palms on his jeans before touching you -a nervous habit you don’t remember him having before- and only then do you notice how damp they are.

He’s nervous. That realization sits quietly in your chest. You walk him downstairs together, slow and unhurried. The house feels different now- not heavy, not tense. Just quiet. At the door, he bends to pull his boots back on. You reach for his jacket hanging from the hook and hand it to him.

“Thanks,” he says softly. He slips it on, adjusting the collar. Then, like he’s debating whether to ask, he hesitates. “Are you… going to Midsummer’s this year?”

You blink. You hadn’t planned on going this year- even with Becca insisting for weeks. She’d been trying to drag you there before announcing she’d actually be out of town visiting her grandmother in Charleston anyway.

You shrug honestly. “I don’t know. I just… don’t think I want to be around all those people.”

He chuckles lightly, tugging his coat into place. “You mean the people you grew up with?”

“Yeah,” you reply. “Those people.” Another small chuckle escapes him, but he doesn’t argue.

You lean against the wall near the door, arms folding loosely. “Becca’s going to Charleston this weekend,” you continue. “And the only people I’d even know there would be my parents, Beau, Becca’s parents… and a bunch of rich kids pretending they’re important.”

He smiles faintly at that.

“And honestly,” you add, “meeting people outside the OBX has made the whole kook-versus-pogue thing here feel really… stupid.”

The silence lands easily between you. Then, after a second: “Well… I’ll be there,” he says, voice softer now. “You don’t have to hang out with anyone else. You could just… hang with me.”

Your stomach flips instantly. And right on cue- a kick.

You place a hand over your belly, pretending you’re just resting it there. “Um…” You look down at the floor instead of at him. “I don’t know, Rafe.”

He nods quickly, backing off without hesitation. “No, yeah. That’s okay. Just… think about it, alright?”

He reaches for the door and opens it.

You nod once. “Okay.”

He gives you a small, understanding smile. Then, before stepping out, he kneels down in front of you. The motion catches you off guard. He looks at your belly, expression softer than you’ve seen in a long time. “Bye, little one,” he says gently. “I love you.”

Your throat tightens. He glances up at you for just a second -like maybe that sentence carried more than one meaning-  but you don’t acknowledge it. You don’t trust yourself to. He stands, pushes open the storm door, and steps out into the damp morning air.

You watch from the doorway as he walks to his SUV, rain mist still hanging in the air. He pulls the door open, pauses for half a second like he might turn around again- but doesn’t. Then he gets in and drives off. And you’re left standing there, hand still resting over your stomach, the house quiet behind you. And your heart… not nearly as settled as you thought it was.

-

“I told you,” Becca says, trailing beside you as you scan a rack of infant clothes. “Even your baby dad wants you there. Even though you’re right about not being with his crazy ass while you’re there. And I’m pretty sure Beau is going. That’s at least one safe person.”

You pause mid-reach and give her a look. “First- please don’t call him that,” you say, sliding a tiny cotton onesie back onto the rack. “Second… I don’t know. I’d just be standing around a bunch of people with superiority complexes for like four hours.” You shrug. “I want to do something fun.”

Becca watches you for a moment. “What happened to you, y/n?” she asks. “You used to love Midsummer’s. We could barely make it to spring before you were planning what dress you were gonna wear.”

She grabs a pair of baby shoes from a nearby shelf and drops them into your basket without asking. They’re adorable, so you don’t protest.

“Is this about you and Rafe not being together?”

“God, no,” you answer quickly. “I’m over that.” Mostly. It isn’t heartbreak you’re worried about- it’s the looks. The whispers. The quiet disappointment wrapped in politeness. Your family’s name carries expectations, and showing up pregnant, unmarried, and newly single feels like walking into a room where everyone already knows the headline version of your life.

You push the cart forward slowly. “I just… can’t stand being around people like them anymore.”

“We are like them,” Becca counters.

“I’m not,” you say firmly- emphasizing the I’m in a way that makes the distinction clear. Becca can still slip into that world easily when she wants to.

She rolls her eyes but lets it go, picking up a tiny baby bucket hat and inspecting it. “Whatever. So what are you gonna do? Sit at home all weekend?”

“I don’t know…” you say, guiding the cart down the aisle. “Maybe I’ll find someone. Or… some people.”

Your mind drifts immediately to the beach. The bonfire warmth of the fireplace. Sarah’s laughter when the baby kicked. JJ being JJ. Kiara handing you tea like you’d always belonged there.

Becca doesn’t notice the shift in your expression.

“Define some people,” she says absently, still browsing.

You hesitate. Then say it anyway. “On Saturday I hung out with the Pogues. That was… actually really fun. Maybe I’ll hang out with them again this weekend.”

You keep your eyes on the cart, already knowing Becca is staring at you now. “Can you please define which Pogues we’re talking about here?” she asks slowly.

“You know,” you say casually, pretending to study a rack of bibs. “John B. Sarah-”

“Ohhh god, y/n,” Becca groans, closing her eyes and pressing her fingers to her temples like she’s developing a migraine. “It’s one thing to stop by their shop and grab napkins. It’s one thing to let your new york friends play tourist there. But actually hanging out with them?” She looks at you like you’ve just announced you’re moving into the Cut.

You shrug. “They’re not bad. Like… at all.”

And that’s the part that surprises you most. Not just that you had fun- but how easy it felt. No expectations. No reputation to maintain. No one looking at your belly like it was a scandal. Just people who treated you like a person.

Becca studies your face now, realizing this isn’t a joke. “You actually like them,” she says.

You nod once. “Yeah. I do.”

And for the first time since the Midsummer conversation started, the idea of skipping it doesn’t feel like avoidance. It feels like choosing something better.

“You should try to get to know them,” you say, nudging the cart forward as the two of you approach the register. “They’re really nice kids.”

The teenage cashier behind the counter barely glances up as she starts scanning items, clearly uninterested in anything beyond finishing her shift.

Becca folds her arms loosely across her chest, watching the total climb on the screen. “I’m sure they are,” she says, unconvinced. “But… I don’t know, y/n. It just doesn’t seem like you.” She pauses, then adds, “If you want, I can push my visit to my grandparents back a weekend. We can hang out instead.”

You look at her, surprised. “You’d do that?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs. “It’s only a weekend difference.”

The cashier reads the total aloud, and you reach into your wallet, pulling out one of the many credit cards tucked inside. As you swipe it through the machine, an idea sparks in your mind- sudden, simple, and kind of perfect.

Becca doesn’t actually know them. Not really. She only knows the version of the Pogues everyone in your world talks about. She hasn’t seen Sarah giggle when the baby kicks. Hasn’t watched Pope gently take things out of your hands when you try to help. Hasn’t heard Cleo’s easy warmth or Kiara’s quiet kindness.

She hasn’t seen them treat you like you belong.

“That actually sounds fine,” you say, trying to keep your voice casual while the receipt prints. “Are you sure about ditching your grandma though?”

Becca rolls her eyes.

“I’m not ditching her. I’m postponing. She’ll survive.”

You laugh softly, tearing the receipt from the printer and dropping it into the bag without looking.

“Okay,” you say. “Then hang out with me this weekend.”

Becca raises an eyebrow immediately. “That sounded suspicious.”

You grab the shopping bag and hook it over your arm, steering the cart away from the counter. “It’s not suspicious,” you say lightly. “Just… trust me.”

Becca narrows her eyes but follows you toward the exit anyway. “I don’t like when you say ‘trust me.’ That usually means you’re about to drag me into something.”

You push open the store door, the late afternoon air brushing your skin. “Relax,” you say with a small smile. “Worst case scenario, you hate it and leave.”

Becca studies your face for another second -trying to read you- before sighing. “Fine. One weekend.”

You nod, satisfied, already picturing the beach again. The van. The music. The way it felt to sit in a circle where nobody expected anything from you.

“Good,” you say. “One weekend.”

And for the first time, you’re not nervous about mixing the two parts of your life. You’re actually excited.

-

Sunlight spills through your bedroom window, warm and golden against the sheets. You stretch slowly, one hand instinctively settling over your stomach as you blink awake. The house is quiet. Peaceful. You look down at your belly and smile. Life feels… right. For the first time in a long time, it isn’t chaotic or heavy or unpredictable. It feels steady. Like a boat that’s finally found calm water after months of rough waves.

“Good morning, baby,” you murmur softly, thumb brushing over the curve of you. “Mommy loves you.”

You push yourself upright and shuffle toward the bathroom in nothing but your tank top and underwear, not bothering to throw anything else on. You catch your reflection in the mirror. Your belly is rounder now. Undeniable. Your skin has that soft glow everyone keeps commenting on. Your hair falls messy around your shoulders, but there’s something else in your reflection that wasn’t there a year ago.

You look happy. You are happy. You tilt your head, playing with your hair absentmindedly while brushing your teeth, debating whether to wear it up or leave it down. A shower sounds productive. A bath sounds indulgent.

You choose indulgent. You pad more into the bathroom and turn on the clawfoot tub, squeezing in a generous amount of soap before adjusting the water temperature. Just as the water begins to rise-

The doorbell rings. You freeze. Your brows pull together. You weren’t expecting anyone. You quickly tug on a pair of gauchos that hang over your dresser chair and head downstairs, bare feet quiet against the wood floors. Peering through the peephole, you blink. Then blink again. Nope. Still there.

Rafe Cameron stands on your porch holding a pink bakery box. You open the door.

He’s looking down the street, hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets, dressed more casually than usual- fitted polo, khaki shorts, dress shoes. Work clothes, but not the polished business version. He turns at the sound of the door and offers you that unfairly handsome smile.

Your stomach growls at the sight of the box. “Rafe… what are you doing here?” you ask.

“Oh-” He glances past you like he’s waiting for permission to exist inside your house.

You sigh and step aside. “You’re lucky you’re holding sugar,” you mutter.

He steps in, and you close the door behind him.

“I, uh…” He clears his throat. “Had a crap day yesterday. And Beau told me that Becca told him that you told Becca that she kicks whenever you eat donuts.” He gestures to the box. “So I figured I’d give myself a little morning pick-me-up before work.”

He’s over-explaining. You know that tone. “Rafe,” you say, crossing your arms gently over your belly. “I love that we’re working on the co-parenting thing. I really do. But you can’t just show up here whenever you feel like it.”

“Yeah. No. I know.” He nods quickly. “I just wanted to ‘see’ her before work.”

He says it casually, but his eyes drift to your stomach immediately. You hold out your hand. “Give me the box.”

He passes it over obediently. You head into the kitchen, and he follows like he’s not sure whether he’s allowed to but doesn’t want to risk leaving.

You open the box. Glazed. Chocolate frosted. Pink frosted with sprinkles. Jelly-filled. Powdered. You weren’t hungry five minutes ago. Now you absolutely are.

You grab a glazed one and take a bite before even grabbing a napkin. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, watching you. “You didn’t even pretend to think about it.”

“You showed up unannounced,” you say through a mouthful, pointing the donut at him. “You don’t get judgment rights.”

He leans against the counter, arms folding.

“You really should text before you come over,” you continue, softer now but still firm. “What if I wasn’t decent?” only realizing he’s seen you completely naked after you’ve already spoken.

He glances down at your gauchos and tank top. “You’re not exactly dressed for company now.”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t start.”

He raises both hands in surrender. “Sorry. Sorry.”

You take another bite. A few seconds pass. Then- A flutter. You pause. Rafe notices immediately. “Did she-”

“Wait,” you whisper.

Another kick. Stronger this time.

Your eyes widen and you grab his wrist before he can even ask, pressing his hand flat against your stomach. He stills instantly. Another kick. His breath catches.

“There,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t speak. Just stares down, completely frozen, like if he moves he’ll miss it. And then she kicks again- firm and unmistakable. A slow grin spreads across his face, softer than you’ve seen in a while.

“She likes glazed,” he murmurs.

You laugh quietly. “Or she likes sugar.”

He keeps his hand there a second longer than necessary. And then-

From upstairs- A faint but very clear sound. Water. Running. Too much water. Your eyes widen.

“Oh my God.”

You pull away from him suddenly and bolt toward the stairs as fast as a third-trimester waddle allows.

“The tub!” you shout.

Rafe swears under his breath and runs up after you. By the time you reach the bathroom, water is spilling over the edge of the clawfoot tub and pooling across the tile.

“Oh my God,” you repeat, rushing forward to shut off the faucet.

Rafe grabs towels from the rack and drops to his knees without hesitation, pressing them against the spreading water. “You left it running?!” he calls out.

“You showed up unannounced!” you shoot back.

“This is my fault now?!”

“Yes!”

He huffs out a laugh despite himself as he soaks up the water. Within minutes the crisis is mostly contained- damp but manageable. You both sit back on the tile floor, slightly breathless. He looks at you. You look at him. And then you both start laughing. Because really- Of course this is how the morning went. Donuts. Kicks. Flooded bathroom.

And somehow… it doesn’t feel overwhelming. The bathroom still smells faintly like soap and warm water.

You’re both sitting on the tile floor, damp towels piled between you, the small flood mostly under control. Rafe wrings out one of the towels into the tub, then stands and reaches for another from the cabinet like he belongs here.

“You missed a spot,” he says, nodding toward a thin line of water near the doorway.

You squint at it. “I did not.”

He grabs another towel anyway and drops to one knee, wiping it up.

“You don’t have to keep cleaning,” you tell him, leaning back against the wall. “It’s handled.”

“Yeah,” he says casually, not looking up. “Just making sure.”

You watch him for a second, recognizing the excuse for what it is. “You’re stalling.”

“I’m not stalling.”

“You are.”

He smirks but keeps wiping the floor. When he finally stands, he tosses the damp towel into the tub and rubs the back of his neck like he’s deciding whether to say something.

“So… Midsummers is this weekend.”

There it is. You look down at your hands, pretending to inspect a hangnail. “Yeah.”

“You going?” he asks, trying to sound neutral.

You shake your head. “No. I think I’m just gonna stay home. Take it easy.”

Which isn’t technically a lie- you will be taking it easy. Just not alone. Becca, the pogues, food, probably sitting in your living room laughing until your stomach hurts. He nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says. “That makes sense.” His voice is calm, understanding- exactly how it should be. But you know him well enough to see the small flicker of disappointment he doesn’t let turn into pressure. “Big crowds, long night… probably not fun when you can’t drink,” he adds with a shrug.

“Exactly,” you say.

A small silence settles between you. Not awkward. Just full of things neither of you are saying.

“Well,” he says finally, clapping his hands once against his thighs. “I should head to work.”

You both make your way downstairs together, slower this time. At the front door, he slips on his shoes while you lean against the wall, arms resting over your belly again.

“Thanks for the donuts,” you say.

“Anytime she needs convincing to kick,” he replies.

He opens the door, then hesitates. You see it coming before he even moves. He bends slightly, reaching toward your stomach.

You immediately put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “Don’t push it.”

He freezes, then looks up at you with a crooked grin. “I wasn’t pushing it.”

“You were absolutely about to kiss my stomach.”

He laughs, straightening. “Okay, yeah. Maybe.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Goodbye, Rafe.”

He lingers half a second longer, then nods. “Bye.”

He steps outside, turning back once before heading down the porch steps. You close the door gently, resting your hand over your belly again. Right on cue- A small kickYou smile. “Yeah,” you murmur. “That was your dad.”

------

Your brain immediately offers two explanations:

1. He was nervous. Overthinking. Building up the courage.

2. He’s bored. Or lonely. Or horny.

You decide -very deliberately- to believe the first one. It feels better. Safer. Less… annoying. Then you remember the sink.

“Shit.” You drop your phone back onto the counter and rush to turn the faucet off before the pan overflows. The moment you twist the handle shut, your phone dings again. You grab it.

Unknown Number: My apologies for taking so long to reach out. I just didn’t really know how to approach me texting you after the other night.

You blink once. Twice. Then, before you can overthink it, another message comes through.

Unknown Number: Which I enjoyed, by the way. Not just the sex but your company too.

You smile despite yourself. A real one. Soft and small, like you’ve been caught doing something private. You bite your lip, thumb hovering over the screen, rereading it once more just to make sure it still says what you think it does.

Cute, you think. Dangerously so. You type back.

You: Hey, Drew. And it’s okay- I’ve been pretty busy anyway.

Casual. Controlled. Just enough distance to keep the balance where you want it. Before you can second-guess yourself, you exit the messages app and open your browser instead. The familiar local takeout site loads, photos of glossy noodles and steaming rice bowls filling the screen as your stomach growls in agreement. Dinner is officially someone else’s problem tonight. You place your order and sink down onto the couch with a sigh- trying to act normal while your pulse hums just beneath your skin.

A week later, and just like that, he’s back in your orbit. And you already know -whether you admit it or not- that you’re going to make him wait just a little longer before he figures out where he stands. You save his number quickly, thumbs moving on autopilot, slotting it neatly into your contacts as Drew S - casual, unceremonious, like you’re not very aware of the way your pulse keeps jumping.

Almost on cue, a message pops up.

Drew S: Working?

You answer faster than you mean to, the response sent before you can overthink the tone.

You: Something like that.

A beat passes. Just long enough for you to wonder if you should’ve waited.

Then:

Drew S: I was actually reaching out to see if you wanted to hang out sometime? Maybe catch a movie or get dinner?

You pause, phone hovering over your lap. Your instinct is to say yes -immediately, enthusiastically- because there’s no real reason not to. He’s polite. Thoughtful. Nervous in a way that feels earnest, not rehearsed. Which is exactly why you don’t give it to him right away. You bite your lip, eyes narrowing slightly as if you’re negotiating with yourself. Let him wonder a little. Let him sit with it.

You: A movie sounds nice. It just depends on the day.

Another pause - longer this time - and you can almost picture him rereading that, parsing every word.

Drew S: I was thinking this upcoming Thursday, if that works for you. And if not, I’m sure we can find another day that works for both of us.

You smile despite yourself. It’s careful. Respectful. Almost formal. Still- you don’t answer right away.

You: I’ll check my calendar and get back to you.

Drew S: Sounds good.

You leave him on read. Not because you’re busy. Not because you’re unsure.

Your calendar is wide open Thursday - glaringly empty - but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that so easily. Even though you already know he’s not a game-player. Even though everything about him so far suggests patience, not entitlement. Still. You can’t help it. Time passes. Your takeout arrives. You curl into the corner of your couch, legs tucked beneath you, orange chicken steaming in its container as you absently poke through it with your chopsticks.

It’s only then - mid-bite, relaxed, full - that you decide he’s waited long enough. You pick up your phone.

You: Thursday works for me.

You barely have time after pressing send before the typing bubbles appear. Immediately. You laugh quietly to yourself, biting your lip as if that might hide the smile threatening to give you away.

Drew S: Great! Looking forward to it.

You set your phone down beside you, letting Norah Jones fill the apartment again, warmth settling into your chest. You don’t text back right away. Let him have that too.

——

Thursday comes faster than you expected. You twist in front of the mirror, studying your outfit. A white wife beater layered under an oversized pale blue cardigan, black capris just below the knees, and simple black kitten heels. Your hair is down, the curls from yesterday now soft and natural, tousled like you didn’t even try. It may be slightly more put-together than necessary for a movie night, but it feels like you.

Barefaced, no makeup -you didn’t want him thinking you tried too hard- though a swipe of lip gloss catches the light and you fuss with your hair until it looks like an accidental 90s blowout. Picking up your phone, you see a message from him, sent twenty minutes ago while you were getting ready.

Drew S: I’ll meet you in the lobby.

You grin, heart skipping. He’s waited, and yet here you are, fashionably late.

You: Sorry, just now seeing this. I’m headed out now. Should be there in fifteen.

Drew S: No worries. The movie doesn’t start for another twenty.

You grab your keys and head out, stomach fluttering in ways you’d thought were reserved for teenage crushes. When you pull into the theater parking lot, the butterflies in your chest are relentless. You shut off the ignition and step inside, the blast of air conditioning hitting you like a wall. Your eyes scan the theater lobby, settling on him immediately. Freshly buzzed hair, surprisingly perfect on him. A simple white shirt under a heavy leather jacket, black cargo pants, black-and-white Adidas Sambas. Hands tucked into his pockets, he’s surveying the space until his gaze finds yours.

You offer a small, tentative smile and approach.

“Hey,” you say, fingers tightening on the strap of your shoulder bag.

“Hey,” he answers, chuckling softly. There’s a quiet amusement in his eyes, corners crinkling, the kind of restrained grin that almost gives him away. He opens his arms, but you hesitate. Just as you reach, he retracts slightly -a perfectly timed, awkward near-miss- and then, after a moment of hesitation, you both extend your arms again. Hugging safely, like distant relatives, but with a warmth that makes your chest hum.

“Sorry I’m late- traffic,” you say casually, as though you weren’t scrutinizing your reflection for ten straight minutes.

“No, you’re not. I’m early,” he rushes to reassure you, palms brushing against his pants as if they’re conspiring against him.

You nod slowly, glancing around. “So… what do you want to watch?”

He meets your gaze before looking away, biting his lip, just enough to show nerves under the cool exterior. “Uh… actually, I was giving you the choice.”

You laugh quietly, a short huff escaping your nose. A soft smile follows. “I just watched the trailer for the second Five Nights at Freddy’s. Is that okay?” You tilt your head slightly, enjoying the subtle fold in his composure as he averts his gaze.

“Yeah, sounds good,” he says, nodding toward the ticket counter. “I’ve heard a lot of great things about it.”

You begin walking in that direction. “Have you ever seen the first one?”

“Uh-” He lets out a breathy laugh, glancing down. Cheeks faintly pink. “Actually, I haven’t.”

“Oh, we don’t have to watch that one. We can pick something else-”

He shakes his head. “I don’t mind, really.”

You approach the counter together. You reach into your bag for your wallet, but he’s faster, already handing over his card to the clerk with a smooth, silent shake of his head that says I got this. You nod, hand dropping from your bag, heart skipping a little. Not that you expected him to pay- but seeing him do it so effortlessly? Definitely hot. You catch his brows knitting in concentration, the casual efficiency somehow magnetic.

And then -suddenly- your mind betrays you. Bathroom. Him inside you. One arm wrapped tight around your waist, pressing you back into his chest. Hungry, precise, consuming. A flash of heat pools between your thighs before you can even register it.

“Y/n?” His voice cuts through your reverie.

“What?” You shake your head, snapping out of it, cheeks warming.

He smirks, just a hint, lips tugging into a half-grin. “I asked if you were hungry.”

You follow him to the concessions, nodding weakly. Heat still lingers on your cheeks, betraying the memory of last night as he slides his card back into his wallet, blue eyes sparkling with amusement, entirely unaware of -or maybe perfectly aware of- the effect he’s having.

He quickly orders a large popcorn and two Icees- one big red one for him, a big blue one for you. The clerk raises an eyebrow at the coordinated colors, but Drew just shrugs, calm and casual as always. You take the cup from him with a small smile, the chill of the frozen drink waking your fingers just a little.

Together, you step into the theater, the air heavy with the scent of buttered popcorn and the faint hum of the projector. You lead the way, his presence close behind, each step echoing softly on the carpeted stairs. The theater is sparsely populated, only a handful of other moviegoers dotted across the rows, letting the two of you feel like the only people in the room.

Once you finally settle into your seats, trailers and advertisements blaring from the massive screen, you tuck your legs beneath you and keep your eyes fixed forward, letting the brightness wash over your features.

“So… how was your week?” His voice comes low, deliberate, as though he’s aware of the empty space between you and feels compelled to fill it, even though the booming Pepsi ad is already doing that job.

You glance at him, a small, soft smile tugging at your lips as you sip through your straw. And then it happens- the same way it did at the party. His eyes flick down, a subtle, drawn-down gaze tracing the movement of your lips, then back up, lingering just enough to catch you off guard.

“It was good,” you answer quietly, careful of the few others around, though your tone carries a warmth meant only for him. “How was yours?” You meet his gaze again, locking eyes like it’s the only conversation that matters in the room.

He exhales, slow, almost relieved, like he’s been holding it in for a while. “It was… okay.” he admits, offering a small, tentative smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. You smile back, soft, indulgent, your chest warming at the subtle vulnerability he rarely lets show. There’s a pause, comfortable and charged, the glow of the screen reflecting off both of your faces, and you can’t help but think that somehow, just sitting here, feels like the most natural thing in the world.

You shift slightly in your seat, reaching for the popcorn. Drew leans just a fraction closer as your hands brush over the tub, a subtle but deliberate closeness that makes your stomach flutter. You catch his eye out of the corner of your vision, and he gives a small, almost apologetic smile, like he’s aware of the effect he’s having but doesn’t quite know how to handle it.

You pop a kernel into your mouth, chewing slowly, and notice him subtly glancing down at your lips before returning his gaze to yours. Your lips twitch into a soft smile, almost teasing, though you don’t say anything. The glow from the screen dances across his face, highlighting the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the slight pink tint in his cheeks.

“You didn’t answer me earlier,” he murmurs quietly, almost shyly, as though speaking a little louder would break the fragile bubble around the two of you.

“Hm?” You tilt your head, straw hovering over your lips.

“About your week. You said it was good, but… nothing more than that,” he says, shrugging like it’s casual, though the way he watches you tells a different story.

You laugh softly, a low, almost private sound. “It really was good. Nothing crazy. Work, errands… boring adult stuff.” You take a slow sip of your Icee, eyes flicking to the screen, then back to him. “Yours? Besides the obviously improved part since we met?”

He smirks, the faintest ghost of a blush on his cheeks. “Touché,” he whispers, leaning back just enough to create space but not so much that the gap between you feels empty. “It really was fine… better now, definitely.” He bites his lip, like he’s holding himself back, and you can feel it- the quiet, contained energy he radiates, part shyness, part subtle dominance in the way he holds your attention without moving a muscle.

The trailers roll on, but neither of you is really watching. You grab a handful of popcorn and offer it to him. “Want some?” you ask, hand hovering with the kernels.

He shakes his head lightly, eyes soft, voice low. “I’m good… I think I’ll just watch you eat.”

You freeze mid-chew, eyebrows lifting, and then bite back a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“I said… I like watching you. It’s… nice,” he admits, voice quiet, measured. He shifts slightly, brushing just a little closer, almost unconsciously, as if proximity alone is a comfort.

You swallow, heat rising to your cheeks, and decide to lean into it, letting your hand linger near his on the popcorn tub. Just enough contact to make him aware of it, just enough to make yourself aware of him. He catches your glance, eyes soft, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips.

For a few moments, you sit like that. Side by side, sharing popcorn, you explaining the premise of the first film, tension thick but unspoken. The movie trailers flicker across the screen in front of you, bright and loud, but the space between you two is quieter than anything else in the theater. And for the first time since the party, you feel the delicious edge of anticipation- the slow, simmering pull that makes every glance, every subtle touch, feel electric.

Then, without a word, he shifts slightly, just enough to brush his arm against yours. Not an accident. Not a shove. Just deliberate, casual closeness that speaks louder than any conversation could. Your pulse spikes, a soft hum of awareness, and you realize: the movie hasn’t even started, but somehow, this… this is exactly what you were waiting for.

The lights dim further, and the opening trailer fades into the black screen of the theater. The unmistakable hum of anticipation fills the room, punctuated by the low rumble of the surround sound as the first scenes of the movie flicker to life. You shift slightly in your seat, trying to focus on the screen, but the faint brush of Drew’s arm against yours keeps your attention half on him, half on the flickering images in front of you.

He seems equally aware, though his composure is nearly perfect. Shoulders relaxed, hands resting on his lap, but there’s a subtle tautness in the way his eyes occasionally flick toward you, just long enough to catch your expression. You can feel the warmth of his presence beside you, close but restrained, and it makes the inside of your stomach coil pleasantly.

You take a slow sip of your Icee, eyes trained forward, but he notices anyway. Not in a way that makes you uncomfortable, just… observant, like he’s cataloging every small detail. The way you chew popcorn, the soft tilt of your head when a jump scare makes you flinch, the tiny hum you let out when the tension in a scene spikes.

“You’re… very focused,” he murmurs quietly, voice low, almost a purr meant only for you. You catch the subtle curve of his lips in the dim light.

“I’m just… trying not to scream,” you whisper back, leaning slightly toward him without meaning to. Your arms brush, and the touch is electric in the soft darkness. He doesn’t flinch; if anything, he seems to lean imperceptibly closer, careful, considerate, without breaking the moment. A particularly tense scene makes you inhale sharply, and you feel him shift slightly beside you. His hand hovers near yours, brushing almost accidentally against your fingers as he adjusts in his seat. You don’t move yours away. Instead, you let it linger, just enough to register, just enough for him to notice. His eyes flick toward your hand, then up to your face, and for a moment the movie might as well not exist.

“Not bad,” he whispers, almost shyly, eyes flicking back to the screen, voice husky but controlled. “You… jump pretty easily.”

You glance at him, eyebrow raised, lips twitching with the smallest, knowing smile. “You’re enjoying watching me flinch, aren’t you?”

A small, breathy laugh escapes him. “Maybe,” he admits softly, almost conspiratorially. “It’s… kind of fun.” His gaze lingers on you just long enough for you to feel the warmth behind it, a quiet, teasing intensity that’s so subtle you almost question if it’s real.

You bite your lip, looking back at the screen, but your mind is spinning with the memory of him from the bathroom, the way he touched you, the way he watched you. The memory makes your thighs tighten ever so slightly beneath the fabric of your capris, and you can feel him notice, because his next glance toward you is softer, measuring, almost reverent.

The movie rolls on, jump scares and suspenseful moments flashing on screen, but your focus has shifted entirely to the silent communication between you two: the brush of his arm, the way his knee occasionally presses closer to yours, the soft exhale he lets out when you flinch or shift in your seat.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, letting the tension breathe between you. It’s unspoken, electric, and completely intimate, even in a crowded, dark theater. And as the first reel comes to an end, you realize- you don’t need words. Every glance, every subtle movement, every half-smile shared in the dim light says more than anything either of you could say aloud.

The credits finally roll, and the theater is quieting down. Outside, night has fully settled in, bathed in soft, amber light from the overhead lamps. You stretch slightly, the tension from the movie and the lingering buzz of sitting close to Drew making your body hum in a pleasant, fluttering way.

“So… that was…” you trail off, trying to find the words, though your lips twitch with a soft smile. “Intense. Definitely scarier than I expected.”

He chuckles, the low sound warm in the darkness. “Yeah… I didn’t think it would get me that much either,” he admits, voice quieter than necessary, like he’s savoring the soft aftermath of the movie and your proximity. “But… you made it better.”

You glance up at him, a little startled by the statement. “Me?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes locking on yours for just a moment, soft but steady. “Watching you react… made it fun. Better than watching it alone.”

Your chest warms, heart skipping a beat. You gather your bag, and he rises with you, hands casually tucked into his pockets but shoulders slightly forward, attentive. The walk to the parking lot is quiet, the night air cool against your skin, carrying the faint hum of distant traffic. You walk side by side, neither of you speaking much, letting the comfortable silence stretch.

When you reach your car, you pause, hand on the door handle. He stops beside you, a few inches away, and looks down at you with a soft, almost vulnerable expression, the kind that makes your stomach flutter.

“Thanks for tonight,” you murmur, voice quiet but genuine. “I had a really nice time.”

“Me too,” he replies, voice low, almost a whisper meant just for you. There’s a pause, long enough that the air between you feels charged, electric. Both of you are waiting- for what? A kiss, maybe. Or just a moment that lingers.

You catch the faintest quirk of a smile on his lips and feel your heart hammer in your chest. Instead of leaning in, you step forward and wrap your arms around him, hugging him firmly. He stiffens for the briefest second, then hugs you back, warm and tentative, like he’s holding himself back from leaning further.

You pull back slightly, resting your forehead against his shoulder for a moment. “Goodnight,” you whisper softly.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs in response, his hand brushing your back as you step away.

You open your car door, giving him one last glance. There’s a quiet understanding, a shared electricity, even as you settle into your seat. He stands there for a moment, hands in his pockets, watching you, a soft, shy smile tugging at his lips before he finally turns and walks back to his own car.

As you start the engine, your chest still fluttering, you can’t help but think how perfect the night was- quiet, simple, full of subtle tension, and leaving both of you wanting just a little more.

When you get home, you drop your keys into the ceramic bowl by the door and let yourself sink into the couch like your body’s been waiting for permission to exhale. The apartment is quiet in that way it only ever is late at night- refrigerator humming, city noise muted through the windows, your thoughts suddenly much louder than everything else.

You pull your phone from your pocket and stare at the screen longer than you mean to. Your thumb hovers. Retreats. Hovers again. You tap your nails anxiously against the sides of the phone, a nervous little rhythm, before finally pressing his name and hitting call before you can talk yourself out of it. The line rings. Once. Twice. Three times. You’re already preparing what you’ll say to his voicemail when the call finally connects.

“Hello?” he answers, voice warm but surprised like the idea of you calling this soon hadn’t crossed his mind.

“Hey,” you say, chewing on your bottom lip, suddenly hyper-aware of how fast your heart is beating.

“Hey,” he replies, casual but with a thread of confusion woven through it. Curious. Awake.

There’s a brief pause, just long enough to feel it.

“I- um…” You sigh, rubbing your thumb against the edge of the couch cushion. You don’t know when the script flipped, when you became the nervous one, but here you are. “I just wanted to say… I had a really great time tonight.”

Another pause. Softer this time.

“And,” you add before you can overthink it, “I’d like to hang out again sometime.”

Silence stretches across the line. Your brain does what it always does- spirals. He’s unsure. He’s reconsidering. He’s replaying the hug. He’s muted himself to pace his living room. He’s regretting everything. Or-

He lets out a quiet laugh. Not loud. Not cocky. Almost relieved.

“I’m glad,” he says, and there’s something genuine there that settles your nerves a notch. “I really enjoyed it too. I was hoping you’d say that.”

You smile to yourself, knees tucking up under you on the couch.

“And yeah,” he continues, voice softening just a little, “I’d love to do it again. Hopefully… soon.”

The word hangs there -soon- not a promise, not a question. Just an opening.

“Yeah,” you say lightly, like it doesn’t mean as much as it does. “Soon sounds good.”

You can practically hear his smile through the phone.

Neither of you rush to hang up. And for a moment, it feels like you’re both standing in the same quiet space again -not touching, not crossing any lines- just aware of each other in that way that makes the waiting feel intentional.

-

Morning comes slower than you expect. Sunlight leaks through the blinds in thin stripes, cutting across your couch, your discarded cardigan, the spot where you fell asleep with your phone still in your hand. You check the time. Too early to text. Too late to pretend you forgot about him. Your phone buzzes anyway.

Drew S: Morning 🙂

You stare at it for a moment, thumb hovering. He didn’t overdo it. No follow-up. No pressure. Just enough to remind you he’s there.

You wait. Brush your teeth. Make coffee. Let the silence stretch just long enough to feel deliberate. Then-

You: Morning

Three dots appear almost instantly. Disappear. Appear again.

Drew S: Hope you slept okay

You picture him saying it- careful, gentle, like last night. You take a sip of coffee before replying.

You: I did. You?

Another pause. Longer this time.

Drew S: Yeah eventually

You smile to yourself. Good. Your phone buzzes again before you can decide whether to push or pull.

Drew S: I was thinking about what you said last night. About hanging out again.

There it is. The opening. The invitation to make it easy. You don’t.

You: Oh yeah?

Three dots. Stop. Start.

Drew S: Yeah. I’d like that whenever you’re free

You let the message sit. Long enough to feel intentional, not accidental. You set your phone down, busy yourself with nothing, then pick it back up.

You: I’m pretty busy this week. But I’ll let you know

It’s not a lie. It’s just… incomplete.

This time the typing bubble doesn’t show up right away.

When it finally does, his response is careful.

Drew S: Okay just let me know. No rush

You can almost hear him choosing every word. You imagine him rereading the thread, wondering if he misstepped, replaying the hug, the almost-kiss, the phone call.

You soften- just a little.

You: I did have fun though. Just so you know

The reply comes faster than anything else he’s sent.

Drew S: I’m really glad. Me too

You don’t answer right away. You don’t need to. You lock your phone, letting the quiet settle back in, knowing exactly what you’ve done- left him warm, hopeful, and just uncertain enough to keep thinking about you all day.

And somewhere between the coffee cooling on the counter and the sunlight shifting across the floor, you realize: You didn’t push him away. You just didn’t let him get comfortable.

-

“So,” Clarissa says, dragging the word out as she sets her mimosa down a little too deliberately, eyes glinting across the brunch table. “Tell me how one casually finds themselves hooking up with the Drew Starkey.”

You freeze for half a second, fork hovering midair.

“Shhh,” you hiss, immediately glancing around the patio, paranoia flaring even though no one is paying attention. You drop your voice and finally cut into your omelette. “And we are not hooking up.”

“Oh?” Jana cuts in, already smug as she pops a square of waffle into her mouth. “So you didn’t sleep with him?”

You shoot her a look.

“Yes, you did,” Yasmine says easily, completely unhelpful, swirling her iced coffee like she’s narrating a documentary.

“Once,” you say, emphasizing the word as you finally take a bite, “does not count as hooking up. That was a one-night stand.”

Clarissa tilts her head. “But you went out with him again.”

“We went to the movies,” you correct. “That was it.”

Jana nearly chokes. “You’re telling me you had the chance to sleep with him again and you didn’t?”

Her tone is so scandalized it almost makes you laugh.

“I wasn’t in the mood,” you shrug, wiping your mouth. “And honestly? He didn’t seem like he was pushing for it either.”

Jana’s eyes widen. “Oh my god. So he’s into you into you.”

You roll your eyes, but you can feel heat creep up your neck.

“Not surprising,” Yasmine adds casually. “He looked like he was about to kiss you when he walked us to the Uber.”

You side-eye her hard. “He probably would’ve if you weren’t standing there staring at us like an audience member.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “Don’t blame me. You’re cold. He was probably scared you’d shut him down.”

“I’m not cold,” you argue.

Clarissa hums, watching you with a knowing smile. “You didn’t kiss him, didn’t sleep with him again, didn’t give him clarity-”

She lifts her glass. “Congratulations. You’ve officially made him nervous.”

You stab another bite of omelette a little harder than necessary, lips pressing together to hide the smile threatening to form as you eye your phone that sits in your lap. Clarissa is the first one to clock it.

“You keep checking your phone,” she says lightly, swirling her mimosa.

“I’m not,” you reply too fast, eyes still trained on your plate.

Jana snorts. “You’ve checked it three times since the waffles arrived.”

“That’s not true.”

Yasmine leans across the table, lowering her voice like this is a confidential briefing. “Did he text you?”

You pause. Just long enough to answer the question without words. “No,” you say finally. “And that’s fine.”

“That is not fine,” Jana says immediately. “You literally called him Thursday night to tell him you had a good time.”

“And?” you shrug. “Balls in his court.”

Clarissa raises a brow. “You hugged him goodbye. You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t sleep with him. You gave him nothing to work with.”

“I gave him honesty,” you argue.

“You gave him mixed signals,” Yasmine corrects gently. “Which, to be fair, is kind of your brand.”

You shoot her a look. “I’m not desperate.”

“No one said desperate,” Clarissa says quickly. “We’re saying intentional.”

Jana grins. “Text him first.”

“No.”

“Text him,” Yasmine echoes.

“Absolutely not.”

Clarissa slides her hand across the table toward you like a peace offering. “You don’t even have to flirt.”

“Yes I do,” you argue. “That’s the problem.”

Jana leans in, elbows on the table. “You literally fucked him against a bathroom sink and now you’re scared to send a text?”

“That is different,” you say defensively.

“How?” Yasmine asks.

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. “…Because texting implies continuation.”

Clarissa smiles slowly. “Exactly.”

You glance down at your phone that you moved to sit face-down beside your plate. Your thumb taps against the edge once. Twice.

“What would I even say?” you ask, quieter now.

Jana doesn’t miss a beat. “Something casual. Cool. Slightly dismissive.”

Yasmine nods. “But not cold.”

Clarissa adds, “Something that makes him think you’re busy but still thinking about him.”

You groan. “That’s impossible.”

Jana grins wider. “No, it’s you.”

You flip your phone over, screen lighting up. No new notifications.

“Five words,” Clarissa says. “Max.”

You inhale. Exhale. Open your messages.

You: Hey. How’s your Sunday going?

You stare at it for a full five seconds before hitting send.

Immediately, regret.

You drop the phone face-down again like it might burn you.

Jana claps once. “Proud of you.”

“Now,” Yasmine adds, “we wait.”

You pick up your fork again, heart doing something stupid in your chest.

Across the table, Clarissa smiles into her drink.

“Don’t worry,” she says sweetly. 

Four minutes pass. You know because you count them.

You pretend not to -fork moving, nodding along while Jana talks about something unrelated- but now your phone is face-up now, curtesy of Yasmine, screen dimming and lighting again every time you ‘accidentally’ touch the screen.

Then it lights up for real. You don’t grab it right away. You let it sit. Two seconds. Three. Casual. You pick it up.

Drew: Hey. It’s been pretty slow, honestly. Just trying to enjoy the quiet. How about you?

It’s a normal text. Friendly. Relaxed. Which is annoying.

Jana clocks your face instantly. “He answered.”

You slide your phone closer to your plate, angling it away like you’re not about to reread the message for the fourth time.

“He took four minutes,” you say.

Clarissa hums. “That’s intentional.”

Yasmine smiles. “That’s someone trying not to answer too fast.”

You type. Delete. Type again.

You settle on something easy.

You: Brunch with friends. Nothing too exciting.

You hit send, then immediately lock your phone.

Jana raises a brow. “That’s it?”

“What else am I supposed to say?” you ask. “Thinking about you?”

“Maybe not that,” Clarissa says. “But you could give him something.”

You shrug. “I did. I replied.”

Your phone buzzes again. This time, you don’t wait.

Drew: That sounds nice. I’m glad you’re out doing something fun.

There’s a pause after that. You stare at the typing bubble when it appears. Then disappears. Then appears again. Your stomach flips.

Drew: I was actually thinking about you earlier.

You repeat the text to the girls. The table goes quiet. You swallow. 

Jana’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

Yasmine smiles slowly. “There it is.”

Clarissa leans back, satisfied. “Your move.”

You glance down at the screen, heart thudding- the push-pull tightening, subtle and electric.

You type. Stop. Erase it. Then finally:

You: Were you?

And just like that, you give him nothing- and everything at the same time.

The typing bubble appears instantly.

No pause. No hesitation.

Like he was already holding his phone.

Drew: Yeah. I was.

Your breath catches. Just a little.

It’s simple. No emojis. No explanation. Just the truth laid bare like he doesn’t know how to do anything else.

Jana makes a small noise. “Oh, he’s gone.”

You don’t respond right away- not because you’re calculating this time, but because your chest feels tight in a way that’s unfamiliar. Real.

Another message comes through before you can even decide what to say.

Drew: I kept thinking about how you hugged me goodbye. And how I didn’t kiss you.

Your thumb hovers over the screen as you read this text out loud.

Across the table, Yasmine watches your face soften. “You like him,” she says quietly.

You don’t deny it. You type slowly this time.

You: I thought you didn’t want to.

Three dots appear immediately.

Drew: I did. I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

Your stomach flips.

There’s something almost unfair about how gentle he is- how he says exactly what he means without trying to impress you. 

Jana exhales dramatically. “He’s respectful and hot? That’s illegal.”

You bite your lip, then type:

You: You could’ve tried.

This time, there’s a pause.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Then:

Drew: …Yeah. I probably should have.

You smile despite yourself.

Clarissa leans over. “That right there? That’s the moment he fell.”

You shake your head, but your fingers betray you.

You: So what now?

The typing bubble appears again- steady, deliberate.

Drew: I’d like to see you again. No pressure. Just… us.

You stare at the message, heart racing, the pull tightening again.

And for once - you don’t know whether you’re about to push him away…or pull him closer.

You stare at his message for a long moment.

I’d like to see you again. No pressure. Just… us.

It’s earnest. Too earnest to ignore- but not something you’re ready to meet head-on.

You type anyway.

You: Maybe. We’ll see how this week goes.

You hit send before you can soften it.

Three seconds pass.

Four.

Then his reply comes through- one message, no push, no ego.

Drew: Yeah, of course. Just let me know.

That’s it.

No follow-up. No question mark. No attempt to claw for reassurance. Which somehow makes your chest ache more than if he had.  You lock your phone and set it face-down on the table.

Clarissa tilts her head. “He take it well?”

“Too well,” you murmur.

Jana squints. “Men don’t do that.”

Yasmine smiles softly. “Unless they like you.”

You reach for your coffee, fingers warm around the mug, but your mind is already elsewhere.

Back to the way he looked at you in the dark theater. The way his voice dropped when he said better now. The way he didn’t kiss you- not because he didn’t want to, but because he cared more about how you felt than what he wanted. Conversation continues around you -brunch plans, weekend gossip, someone’s new job- but it all washes over you like background noise.

Your phone sits there, silent. You don’t turn it over. But you think about him anyway. You think about how easy it would be to text him later. How hard it would be not to. And somewhere between bites of omelette and sips of lukewarm coffee, you realize something unsettling: You didn’t leave him on read to be cruel. You did it because if you kept talking… you might stop pretending you didn’t already care.

Later that night, the apartment is too quiet.

-

You’re curled up on the couch in an oversized sweatshirt, one leg tucked under you, the TV on but muted- something familiar you’re not really watching. The glow from your phone lights up your face every few minutes as you pick it up, check it, set it back down again.

Still nothing.

You tell yourself that’s good. That this is what you wanted. You open your messages anyway.

The thread with Drew sits near the top, his last text still there: Yeah, of course. Just let me know.

So reasonable. So calm. You scroll up without meaning to.

I kept thinking about how you hugged me goodbye.

I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

Your chest tightens in that annoying way it’s been doing all day. You type. Delete it. Type again.

You: Hope your Sunday ended okay.

Too nice. Delete.

You: Still thinking about that movie.

Too obvious. Delete.

You toss your phone onto the couch beside you and drag a hand down your face.

“This is stupid,” you mutter to no one.

You weren’t trying to play games - at least, not consciously. You just didn’t want to be the one who leaned in first again. Not when it already felt like you’d done that last night with the phone call. Not when you liked him enough that it scared you a little.

You pick your phone back up. This time, you don’t open your messages. You open his contact. Your thumb hovers over his name. If you text him now, he’ll probably answer. If you don’t, he’ll probably let you be.

And that thought -that he’d respect your silence- does something uncomfortable to your stomach.

You exhale slowly, staring at the ceiling. You don’t text him. Not yet. But you don’t put the phone down either.

You just lie there, screen dimming in your hand, thinking about the way he said yeah, I was like it was the easiest truth in the world.

And wondering which would make you feel worse: Letting him worry… Or realizing you already are.

-

The clock blinks 12:43 a.m. and your apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator. You’re still wrapped in your oversized sweatshirt, legs still curled under you, staring at the ceiling like it’s going to give you answers.

You grab your phone. Your thumb hovers over his contact, heart thudding just a little faster than it should. The decision is impulsive- boredom, curiosity, and desire all tangled together in one electric pulse.

You tap his name.

You: you up?

The three dots appear almost instantly, and your chest does that little flip.

Drew: yeah. can’t sleep. you?

You: same. movie in my head won’t stop playing.

He responds quickly.

Drew: let me guess… Five Nights at Freddy’s 2?

You laugh quietly into the dark.

You: exactly. how’d you know?

Drew: because I remember you talking through every trailer about the first film.

You bite your lip, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of your sweatshirt.

You: huh. so you were paying attention.

Drew: I always pay attention. Especially to you.

Your stomach twists in anticipation. You set the phone down for a second, staring at it, and then pick it back up.

You: wanna come over?

There’s a beat of silence that stretches your pulse across eternity. Then the familiar typing bubble appears.

Drew: …yeah. give me twenty?

Your fingers hover over the screen for a second, then you type:

You: okay… I’ll send you my address.

You hit send, then feel that little rush of heat -a mix of nerves and excitement- as you imagine him navigating to your apartment.

Drew: got it. see you soon.

The second he says that, you jump into action.

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of every corner of your apartment. “Okay, okay,” you mutter, tossing your sweatshirt onto the chair, tugging off your leggings. You grab a fresh pair silk white of shorts and a tank top from the drawer, tossing your hair up into a messy bun.

A quick shower turns into a flurry- water splashing, shampoo lathering, the sound of the shower echoing like a countdown in your apartment. You’re brushing your teeth at one point while mentally checking off all the things you could have forgotten: towels, lighting, making sure the couch blanket isn’t wrinkled…

Every few seconds, you glance at your phone, heart jumping when it lights up with a notification- but it’s just the timer you set for yourself. You remind yourself that in exactly twenty minutes, he could be here, and your pulse surges again.

You finish up, towel-dry hair, toss on the fresh clothes, swipe on a hint of lip gloss, and glance in the mirror. Your reflection is messy, unpolished, but perfect for tonight- unpretentious, casual, a little flirty just by default. You grab your phone, set it on the counter, and sit on the edge of the couch, legs swinging slightly, waiting for the familiar sound of him buzzing your apartment. The anticipation hums through you, electric and delicious.

After running your fingers through your hair, you dust the loose strands off your silk two-piece night set. The fabric glides softly over your skin, catching the low light from the lamp you’d left on. Just as you’re about to settle onto the couch, the faint buzz of the apartment intercom pulls you upright again.

You bite the inside of your cheek and step over, leaning close to the speaker.

“Who is it?” you ask, letting just the tiniest hint of playfulness edge your tone. You know exactly who it is, but it didn’t hurt to make him think you might have other company.

“Uh… it’s Drew,” he says, his voice catching just slightly, like your little question caught him off guard.

You smirk, buzzing him in. “Come on up.”

Quickly, you give your apartment a once-over. Cushions fluffed, a throw neatly draped over the couch, your phone now moved over to charge on the side table. You’ve done enough tidying for tonight- the rest will just have to look… effortless.

Before you can even catch your breath, a sharp knock lands on your door. Three knocks, deliberate, confident. You stand there, fingers brushing against the doorframe, glancing at your watch. A minute, maybe a minute and a half, passes. You want to seem composed, not desperate- patient, just enough to make him wonder what you’re thinking. Finally, deciding that’s long enough, you reach for the handle and pull the door open.

There he is. Beige cargo slacks, crisp white t-shirt, leather jacket hanging just right over broad shoulders. Hands casually in his pockets, yet every inch of him radiates that effortless, magnetic draw. His eyes flick to yours, a little dazed, a little reserved, and suddenly the space feels charged.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping aside. He takes the cue, sliding past you into the apartment without a word.

“Hey,” he says again, eyebrows furrowed just slightly, eyes scanning the space as you close and lock the door behind him. There’s a momentary pause -subtle, electric- like he’s taking it all in, committing it to memory.

“Make yourself at home,” you say lightly, brushing past him toward the kitchen.

He toes his shoes off without hesitation, hands still tucked in his pockets, following you a few steps behind. “You expecting someone else?” His voice is low, casual, but the little quirk in his tone betrays curiosity- maybe even mild amusement.

“Mhmm,” you shrug, opening the cup cabinet and pulling out two glasses. “Sometimes people just show up randomly.” You meet his gaze over your shoulder and let your lips curve into a playful smirk.

He tilts his head, bottom lip poking out slightly, still digesting that casual admission. “Huh. Good to know,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You shake off the brief tension. “Water, tea, wine? Or… coffee?” You let the question float in the air, easy, almost mundane, letting him settle into the moment.

“Water’s fine,” he says, sliding onto the stool in front of your kitchen island. He folds his hands on the counter, shoulders relaxed, but there’s that soft tension in the air- the quiet pull between composure and something unspoken.

You pour two glasses of water, the sound of liquid filling the glasses echoing softly in the kitchen. You set one in front of him and take a sip from your own, feeling the heat of the moment press lightly against your skin, as if the room is waiting for one small spark to ignite it.

He catches your eyes mid-sip, that shy-dazed look softening into a small, crooked smile. “So… this is nice,” he murmurs, voice low, almost reverent, as if even ordinary water tastes better in your presence.

You smirk, letting him simmer in that quiet tension, taking a deliberate sip, already imagining how the rest of the night might unfold.

“So… how was your Sunday?” you ask, leaning back slightly as you lift yourself onto the counter in front of him. Your legs swing freely, bare, letting the cool air brush against your skin.

His gaze drops instinctively to your thighs before darting anywhere but your eyes. He takes a slow sip of water, swallowing audibly, then exhales with a quiet sigh. “It wasn’t too bad. Yours?” His shrug is casual, but when he finally looks up, there’s a tension in his jaw, like he’s measuring you as much as himself.

You bite your lip, pretending to think, eyes scanning the kitchen like you’re deep in thought. “Mhmmm… it was okay.” Your gaze flickers back down to him, sharp and teasing. “Better now,” you add, almost casually, though your tone carries weight.

He tilts his head, pretending confusion. “How so?” he murmurs, like he doesn’t already know.

You arch an eyebrow, the kind of “really?” tilt that makes him pause mid-breath. With a deliberate motion, you take the glass from his hand and set it to your side, letting your fingers brush his knuckles in the process. Then, slowly, you shift, sliding fully onto the counter, your legs parting just enough for your feet to dangle on either side of his thighs.

“You’re here,” you murmur, voice low, almost purring, as your hand snakes up the sleeve of his leather jacket, fingers tracing the line of his arm before gripping the collar and tugging lightly. It’s not enough to pull him down, but his body reacts anyway- rising to meet you, eyes scanning your face with that quiet intensity that makes your pulse race.

“You still… never kissed me,” you tease, letting your knees subtly bracket his hips, feeling the warmth of him close against your skin.

“I take that as… you want me to now,” he murmurs, leaning just enough so you can feel his breath, minty and warm, ghosting over your lips. His eyes are locked on yours, searching, soft but commanding, like he’s waiting for permission he doesn’t actually need.

“That… would be nice,” you whisper, nodding slightly, keeping your gaze pinned on his, daring him without words.

And then, without hesitation, he closes the space. His lips crash into yours, not rough, not rushed, but heavy with intent, claiming you in a way that sends a shockwave straight through your body. Your hands instinctively rise, tangling in the nape of his neck, fingers threading through the short buzz of his hair, pulling him closer.

His hands find your waist, fingers digging in just enough to ground you against him, tilting your hips slightly forward, deepening the contact. Your breath hitches against his mouth as he shifts, pressing in, slow and deliberate, letting the kiss linger and tease all at once.

For a moment, the rest of the world disappears. There’s just him, you, the heat building between your bodies, and that intoxicating mix of softness and control in the way he holds you, the way his eyes still search yours through the kiss, hungry but reverent all at once.

Your hips shift almost instinctively, pressing forward as he deepens the kiss, and you feel the immediate weight of him pressing against you. One of his hands slides lower, cupping your ass, pulling you flush against him, and the heat radiating from his body is enough to make your breath hitch.

You respond without thinking, grinding your hips up into him, testing the hardness already straining against his beige slacks. His lips part slightly against yours, letting out a low, guttural groan that vibrates against your mouth. He tilts his head, pressing you harder into him, guiding your movements without ever letting go of the kiss, letting you feel just how turned on he already is.

Your hands slide down, fingers brushing the fabric of his pants, rubbing over the outline of him. You feel the reaction immediately- the way his body stiffens, the way his hips press back into you, matching your movement. He groans again, softer this time, almost a warning, almost a promise, but his eyes never leave yours, dark and hungry.

“Fuck…” he murmurs against your lips, breath shaky, his hands tightening slightly on your ass, anchoring you, making every movement intentional. “You feel… so good like this.”

You let out a shaky laugh, still kissing him, rubbing up and down through his pants, teasing, testing, letting him know exactly how much you notice him, how much you want him. His reaction is instant, one hand moving to your lower back, guiding you as you grind, the other still cupping your ass, holding you perfectly in place.

“You’re… dangerous,” he mutters, teeth grazing your lower lip as he pulls you closer. “And I… I can’t… resist you.”

Your lips curve into a sly smile against his, shivering slightly from the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Good,” you murmur, voice husky, “because I don’t plan on stopping.”

And just like that, the push-pull between you ignites further- him dominating softly but entirely captivated, you teasing and grinding, your hands doing the talking as much as your lips, and the tension between need and control stretching taut in the air.

He groans into your mouth as he grips your ass tighter, lifting you effortlessly off the counter. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, and the press of his body against yours sends a shock of heat straight through you. He carries you toward the living room, the leather of his jacket brushing against your bare thighs, the anticipation in the air thick and electric.

Just as he’s about to lay you down on the couch, you shift slightly in his arms, a sly smirk tugging at your lips.

“Wait,” you murmur, voice low, teasing. His eyebrows lift, clearly caught off guard but intrigued.

Before he can ask, you twist your body, nudging him gently but firmly toward the couch. “You lay down,” you instruct softly, brushing your lips over his jaw, watching his reaction.

For a moment, he hesitates -his eyes searching yours, a mixture of shock and arousal flickering there- but the soft dominance in your tone wins. He sinks onto the couch, letting out a low chuckle, eyes dark and locked on you as you straddle him, your knees on either side of his hips.

“Good choice,” you murmur, leaning down, letting your hands trail over his chest, brushing against the rising hardness through his pants. He exhales shakily, one hand reaching up to tangle in your hair, holding you in place.

Your lips hover over his for a beat, just to tease, before lowering to capture his in a slow, deliberate kiss. Your weight presses lightly into him, and the subtle control -you on top, guiding the rhythm- sends a shiver through both of you.

He groans low in your mouth, hips lifting slightly, pressing into you, already straining with need. Your hands slide down, brushing him through his pants again, teasing, testing, coaxing. His eyes flutter closed, jaw tightening, breath catching, completely surrendered to your control yet utterly captivated by your every move.

“Fuck… you’re insane,” he murmurs, voice rough and breathless, eyes still locked on yours. “And I… I love it.”

You smirk, grinding lightly, letting the heat between your bodies do the talking. “Good,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear. “Because I’m just getting started.”

The tension coils between you, every glance, every touch, every subtle movement a mix of dominance and submission, teasing and surrender, as the air around you crackles with desire.

You straddle him, leaning forward just enough to let the heat of your body press into his, lips brushing his jaw and neck as you whisper, “You look really good like this.”

He swallows, throat tight, trying to keep that calm, collected demeanor he’s known for, but the way your weight presses down on him, your hands tracing slow lines across his chest, is unraveling him just enough. His hands twitch at his sides before he finally lets them drift to your hips, fingers gripping lightly, testing the boundaries of your control.

“Mm… you’re… unbelievable,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes darting up at you, trying to maintain composure while his body betrays him. “You really know what you’re doing, huh?”

You smirk, leaning down to press your lips to his collarbone, then pulling back just slightly, letting your gaze meet his. “I think you’ll tell me,” you tease, grinding lightly against him, the friction making him inhale sharply.

Your hand drifts lower, sliding into the waistband of his pants. His eyes widen fractionally, biting his bottom lip to keep the groan from escaping. You cup him through the fabric of his boxers, your fingers wrapping around him and giving a slow, deliberate stroke.

He exhales sharply, hips lifting slightly on instinct, trying to stay in control but failing miserably. “Fuck…,” he murmurs, voice husky, shaking his head slightly as if trying to convince himself he’s still calm.

You hum against his neck, grinding down a little more, teasing, watching his chest rise and fall with every shallow breath. “Mmm… I don’t think you’re that good at pretending, Drew,” you murmur, fingers sliding faster, just enough to make him shiver and clench under your touch.

His hands grip your thighs now, trying to anchor himself, trying to act like he’s not unraveling completely beneath you. “… I can’t… fuck…,” he groans, voice tight with need, eyes dark and glistening. 

Your smirk grows. “Good. I want you like this.”

Finally, you lean down, lips brushing his ear, whispering just for him, “Let me help.” Your other hand slips expertly to the waistband, tugging his pants down along with his boxers in one smooth motion.

The sight of him, fully revealed beneath you, makes you bite your lip, thrilled by the control and the desperation masked as composure in his eyes. He exhales sharply, chest rising, hands still gripping your hips, trying to steady himself as you take the next step, guiding him with your hands and your teasing presence.

He groans low, letting out a shaky laugh, whispering, “I- fuck… you’re… something else,” still trying to keep that cool exterior, even though every stroke, every brush of your fingers, is melting him entirely beneath you. You shift your weight, leaning forward until you’re hovering over him, thighs bracketing his hips. His chest rises and falls faster as his eyes track every movement you make, the faintest bite of anticipation tugging at his bottom lip.

Slowly, deliberately, you slide down, letting your hands glide along his hips for guidance as you sink to your knees between his thighs. The subtle brush of your hands along his inner thighs draws a shiver from him, though he tries to keep his expression composed. His jaw tightens, eyes fluttering closed for a brief second, just long enough for you to know he’s lost a little control. You lean in, breath warm against him, and begin teasing him with the tip of your tongue, dragging it lightly over the head before taking him fully into your mouth. The faint pressure of your lips and the slow, deliberate movements make him exhale sharply, hips pressing instinctively toward you.

He doesn’t speak- he doesn’t have to. The wide-eyed, almost incredulous look on his face, the way his hands twitch toward your hair before gripping the sides of the couch, says it all. He’s trying to act like he’s still cool, still in control, but every soft hum and teasing glide of your lips is undoing him.

You watch him carefully, gauging every reaction- the slight hitch of his breath, the subtle arch of his back, the tightening of his thighs around you. You let your tongue flick along the underside slowly, teasing, coaxing, letting him adjust and react, keeping a deliberate rhythm that’s equal parts sensual and commanding.

His eyes stay on you, disbelief and want flickering across his features. A low groan escapes him, muffled, restrained, as though he’s trying to convince himself this is happening. His hands tense slightly at his sides, then relax, letting you take control -and you can feel it. The way his hips lift, the subtle bucking against your mouth, the tiny exhalations that escape between teeth- all of it tells you he’s completely undone, but still trying to play it cool.

You pull back just slightly, letting your tongue trace along the slit before taking him in again, slow and deliberate, letting him feel every inch, every flick of your tongue. He bites his lip, eyes dark and wide, a soft, almost whispered groan breaking free despite his attempts at composure.

Your hands grip his thighs, grounding him, keeping him steady as you move with purpose, letting your mouth and fingers do all the talking. He exhales raggedly, still trying to act like he’s not completely mesmerized by you, like he’s not already losing control.

Every soft hum, every gentle swirl of your tongue is met with a tightening of his body, small whimpers he swallows, his jaw flexing, a low, restrained “shit…” caught between lips. The disbelief is written all over him- that quiet, tense, awe-struck sensation of a man who can’t believe he’s this lucky.

And you lean in closer, pressing a kiss lightly against his thigh, eyes flicking up at him, smirking just enough to let him know you know exactly what effect you’re having.

You slide a hand up his hip, tugging him closer as your mouth takes him deeper, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tip. His breath hitches sharply, hips twitching involuntarily, fingers clenching at his sides as he tries to maintain some composure.

“Fucking hell…” he groans low, eyes half-lidded, trying to act like he’s still calm, but his body betrays him completely. His chest rises and falls erratically, thighs tensing as your lips and tongue work over him with deliberate pressure. His eyes widen, a shallow inhale escaping him as you rise to your knees.

Without hesitation, you push him back gently against the couch, straddling his thighs. Your bare skin slides against his, the friction sending an immediate jolt through both of you. He groans, unable to help himself, hands gripping your hips as you settle your weight down on him.

You grind slowly at first, savoring the moment, rocking your hips with purpose. His jaw tightens, mouth opening in a soft, strangled gasp as he tries to keep his cool, but it’s a losing battle. Every movement, every grind of your body over his, makes him whine softly, the restrained groans breaking into more desperate sounds.

“Fuck… oh god…” he mutters, hands clutching your waist, trying to stay grounded, trying to stay composed, but the heat in his body is unraveling him. His hips buck instinctively into yours, chasing friction, chasing feeling.

You lean forward, hair brushing his chest, pressing down harder into him, setting the rhythm. Your thighs squeeze around his hips as you ride him, rolling your hips in perfect, deliberate strokes. He’s a moaning, writhing mess beneath you- desperate, needy, his control slipping further with every motion.

“Y/n…” he breathes, voice thick, struggling between trying to stay composed and giving in to the pleasure. His hands grip your hips tighter, pulling you down into him with every stroke, rocking you faster.

You tilt your hips, angling yourself just right, letting the friction hit that spot inside you that makes your breath catch. A sharp, ragged gasp escapes your lips as a coil of heat snaps tight in your stomach. You bite your bottom lip, fingers digging into his shoulders, eyes closing as the pleasure builds impossibly high.

He groans beneath you, desperate but trying to stay cool, but the sound of your moans, the way your body moves against him, drives him wild. He’s straining into you, hips jerking, trying to hold back while you ride him with increasing fervor.

Then, just when you can’t take it anymore, your back arches, hips snapping forward, and you shiver violently as your orgasm crashes through you. You cry out softly, legs trembling, squeezing him tight as heat coils low in your body, every nerve alight.

He doesn’t last long after that- every gasp, every tremor, every grinding movement from you pushes him over the edge. He shudders, groaning loudly, spilling into you with an intensity that leaves him a panting, moaning mess beneath you. His hands clutch your hips, guiding your movements as he rides out the wave of his own release.

You stay on top, riding out the aftershocks together, both of you gasping, shivering, bodies slick and trembling. Finally, you lean forward, resting your forehead against his chest, letting the rhythm slow as your breathing evens out.

He lifts his head slightly, cheeks pink, eyes dazed and unfocused from the intensity. “Holy… shit,” he mutters, voice rough, still trembling.

You smirk, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your face. “Told you I was just getting started,” you murmur, though your body feels spent, satisfied in a way that makes the room feel heavy with heat.

He lets out a low, breathy laugh, pulling you close and holding you down gently. The dazed, lost look in his eyes is unmistakable, and you can feel the satisfaction of having taken control, set the pace, and left him completely undone- and yet, he’s still trying to play it cool, still trying to regain some composure even as he melts under you.

-

You shift off him slowly, letting your legs touch the floor first, chest heaving, body still trembling from the intensity. His chest rises and falls as well, but the dazed, shy look has returned, that quiet, almost guilty shyness he wears so well after moments like this. He’s trying to act like he’s composed, but you can see it in the slight tremor of his hands, the way his eyes keep darting to yours before looking away.

You sigh softly, brushing a sweaty strand of hair off your forehead, glancing down at the evidence of the night still clinging between you. “Mm… let’s clean this up,” you murmur, voice low, not wanting to break the intimacy but needing some practicality.

He shifts nervously, hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. “Uh… you okay?” he asks, still soft, still shy, like he doesn’t want to bother you.

“I’m fine,” you reply, reaching for that sweatshirt you tossed on the couch earlier. You press it gently against yourself, wiping away what’s left of him that slipped out, feeling the warmth linger, the memory of him still pressing into your skin. He watches quietly, almost reverent, hands finally sliding down to tug his pants and boxers back up with careful, slow motions, like he’s afraid of ruining the delicate tension of the moment.

You slip your shorts back on, tugging them into place, smoothing the fabric over your thighs. Your hair is damp, sticking slightly to your shoulders, but you don’t care- he doesn’t seem to either, still sitting there, slightly hunched, staring at you like he can’t believe this is real, that he’s really here.

You lean against the arm of the couch, brushing your fingers over your damp skin, chest still rising and falling. “I guess…” you start, voice low, eyes meeting his, “I guess that’s it for tonight.”

He swallows, cheeks still pink, lips parted slightly. He nods, not saying much, because saying much would ruin this- the soft tension, the shy awe, the quiet satisfaction of what just happened. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice husky but still restrained.

You step closer, reaching out to brush a hand over his shoulder, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. He stiffens slightly, then relaxes, eyes closing briefly at the touch. You don’t want to rush him, don’t want to kick him out just yet, but the night has run its course.

“Thanks for coming over,” you say softly, voice low, teasing without teasing. You watch him, knowing he’s processing everything, still that shy, controlled presence even after being completely undone.

He nods again, voice quiet, “Thank you… for… everything.” The hesitation in his words makes your chest tighten, that quiet vulnerability mixed with desire.

You give him a small, almost imperceptible smile before moving to the counter to grab your phone. “I’ll let you out,” you murmur, still feeling the warmth between you linger. He stands slowly, hands brushing briefly over yours as he goes to the door, and you catch the small, shy smile that tugs at his lips. He hesitates with his hand on the knob, just long enough that the pause feels like it stretches between you. You catch the hesitation, a small smirk tugging at your lips.

“Wait,” you murmur, stepping closer, stopping him mid-motion. “Wanna… watch a movie or something? Keep the night going a little?”

His eyes flick up at you, wide and slightly incredulous, like he can’t believe you’re asking. That shy, awkward smile tugs at his lips, still soft, still hesitant, but the daze in his eyes deepens. “Uh… yeah,” he murmurs, voice low, barely above a whisper, as if testing the waters.

You nod, satisfied, stepping aside so he can close the door behind him properly. “Good,” you say, a little teasing in your tone. “I’ll grab more pillows.”

He exhales slowly, relief and quiet anticipation written all over him, cheeks still pink, hands brushing lightly over his pants as if trying to ground himself. You can feel the tension of the night lingering between you, the heat of what just happened still pulsing, and now… a new layer of anticipation has been added- this time, with him staying, unsure but willing, and you firmly in control of the tempo.

You settle onto the couch, the cushions shifting under you as you make yourself comfortable, Drew sinking in beside you. The soft glow of the TV illuminates the room, the previews and trailers flickering across his face. He’s still tense- shoulders a little tight, hands fidgeting in his lap, like the aftermath of earlier hasn’t quite settled in him yet.

You glance at him, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. “You… tense after all that?” you murmur lightly, brushing a stray curl from your face. The tone is teasing, not mocking, but enough to draw a soft, embarrassed laugh from him.

“Maybe a little,” he admits quietly, almost sheepishly, eyes flicking toward you before he looks back at the screen. You can tell he’s trying to act casual, like it’s no big deal, but his fingers are still clenching slightly.

You shift closer, letting your knee lightly brush his, the contact deliberate but casual. “Relax,” you whisper, voice low. “You’re allowed to just… exist for a minute.”

He exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing fractionally, and for a beat he just sits there, watching the movie like he’s trying to ground himself. Then, without a word, his hand drifts over and settles over yours.

You freeze for just a second, blinking down at your fingers now entwined with his. His thumb brushes softly over your hand in a slow, steady rhythm. You glance up at him, expecting maybe a shy glance or an awkward grin- instead, he just smiles at you, casual, easy, like it’s no big deal, before returning his attention to the flickering images on the screen.

You stare at him for a beat, a little dumbfounded. Weird… but okay, you think, letting out a quiet huff of laughter and squeezing his hand lightly in response. You lean back into the couch, letting yourself settle into the warmth of him next to you, hand in hand, letting the movie be background to the comfortable, teasing tension that still hums between you.

Even as the trailers roll, your mind can’t help but wander to the way he just casually held your hand, the subtle mix of shyness and confidence in him, and you realize… this push-pull between you isn’t going to end anytime soon.

-

The movie drones on quietly in the background, the room dim except for the flickering light of the screen. Your hand is still loosely wrapped in his, though you notice he’s grown quieter, his shoulders sagging slightly. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you realize he’s drifted off- his head tilting a little toward the couch, eyes closed, breath steady and soft.

A small smile tugs at your lips. He looks… peaceful, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest tighten just a little. Carefully, so as not to wake him, you slide your fingers out of his hand, letting them rest gently on the arm of the couch for a moment before pulling a soft throw blanket from the back of the couch.

You drape it over him slowly, smoothing it down across his shoulders. His hand twitches slightly as the warmth touches him, and his eyes flutter open, blinking blearily into the low light.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, voice thick with sleep.

You lean down just a little, brushing his cheek with your thumb. “Shh… go back to sleep,” you whisper, voice low, almost a lullaby. “It’s late. You don’t have to stay awake.”

He hesitates, gaze searching yours for a beat, lips parting as if to argue, but the heaviness of his eyelids wins. With a soft, almost imperceptible nod, he relaxes again into the couch, tucking himself a little deeper under the blanket.

You shift beside him, careful not to disturb him, and rest your hand lightly on his arm for a moment before letting it fall to your lap. Watching him breathe steadily, you feel a quiet warmth spread through you- the closeness, the trust, the simple softness of the moment.

For the first time since the night began, the world feels like it’s slowed down, and you let yourself just… exist here, in this calm, quietly intimate space with him.

-

You stir awake, the pale pre-dawn light spilling softly through the blinds. The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the gentle rise and fall of Drew’s chest next to you. Your eyes flutter open, and for a moment, you just watch him, the small rise and fall of his chest, the way he looks almost impossibly relaxed despite everything that happened the night before.

Then reality hits- or at least, the version you’re willing to admit to yourself. You have “work” in a couple of hours. Slowly, carefully, so as not to startle him, you shift, gently untangling yourself from his side. He groans softly in his sleep, half-turning toward you, but doesn’t wake fully.

You clear your throat awkwardly. “Uh… hey,” you whisper, voice low. He blinks once, then rubs his eyes, hair mussed in every direction, before sitting up groggily. “I… I should probably get going. I, uh… have work soon.”

He quirks an eyebrow, half-smile tugging at his lips, clearly unconvinced. “Work, huh?” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “At five a.m.? That’s… ambitious.”

You bite your lip, shrugging sheepishly. “Yeah… deadlines… stuff.”

He chuckles softly, running a hand over his buzzed hair. “Right,” he says, giving you a knowing look. Despite the tease in his tone, he’s gracious, getting up slowly and pulling on his jacket.

You hover near the door, awkwardly shuffling your feet. “So… can I see you again?” he asks quietly, stopping just inside the doorway. His eyes search yours, sincere, gentle, the shy-but-considerate energy still there.

You grin, leaning casually against the doorframe, trying to keep it light. “Yeah… but, uh,” you tease, lifting a finger, “no more movies. Too dangerous for my productivity.”

He laughs softly, and the sound warms the apartment in a way that makes you pause for a moment. “No movies,” he agrees, a subtle grin tugging at his lips. “Then what are we doing next time?”

You shrug, smirking. “We’ll figure it out. Something… fun. Or maybe… more of this,” you say, nodding toward the couch behind him, voice trailing teasingly.

He gives a small, amused groan, shaking his head as he finally steps toward the door. “Okay. I’ll hold you to that,” he murmurs, soft and low, before hesitantly leaning down to press a quick kiss to your temple. “See you soon, yeah?”

You nod, trying not to grin like an idiot, and watch him leave. As soon as the door clicks shut, you sink against it, a small laugh escaping your lips, heart still racing despite the hour. The apartment feels too quiet without him, and you know… you’re already looking forward to the next time.

-

Your phone buzzes on the counter, startling you slightly- it’s early, too early for anything besides caffeine and regrets, but the name on the screen makes your chest skip a beat.

Drew S

You answer, voice still thick with sleep. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies, casual but soft, like he’s grinning even though you can’t see him. There’s a brief pause, and then he chuckles low. “I just… wanted to say I really enjoyed last night.”

You smirk immediately, tilting your head as you lean back against the counter. “All of last night?” you tease, voice dripping with amusement.

There’s a faint laugh on the other end, a little breathless, and you can hear him shift uncomfortably. “Yeah… all of it,” he admits, a little flustered. “You… you’re incredible.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing outright, the satisfaction of hearing him so flustered warming you. “Mm-hmm,” you hum, letting the silence linger for just a second before changing the subject, playful. “So… what’s the plan now? You gonna stalk me all day, or are we plotting our next hangout?”

He chuckles again, deeper this time, recovering some of his cool. “Well… I was thinking… dinner? Or an arcade. I figured I’d let you choose this time.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to grin too much. “An arcade? Really? You trying to make me beat you at skee-ball?”

“Maybe,” he teases, voice low but amused. “Maybe I just want to see that competitive streak of yours. Or we could keep it low-key with dinner. Your call.”

You tap your fingers against your lips, pretending to think hard. “Hmm… tough choice.”

He hums, waiting patiently, and you can hear the faint grin in his voice. “Take your time,” he murmurs. “I don’t mind. I can… wait.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s a small warmth in your chest at how patient and soft-spoken he still is, even after last night. “Fine,” you finally answer, teasing in just the right way. “But I’m warning you- arcade, I’ll demolish you.”

“Challenge accepted,” he says immediately, a hint of laughter creeping in. “Dinner, arcade… whatever you want, just say when. I’ll make it happen.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Okay… I’ll let you know. But seriously, last night was… fun. Don’t get too cocky.”

“Noted,” he mutters, voice low and amused. “Noted.”

You hang up with a small, satisfied grin, already imagining the push-pull tension that’s about to start all over again- and secretly hoping it never ends.

-

The week drags on in a blur of errands, work, and whatever small distractions you can find. Normally, you’d be fine flying solo for a few days, but this week feels heavier. Your phone sits beside you, quiet, no texts, no calls. You know he’s filming- long hours, early mornings, late nights- but it doesn’t make the absence sting any less.

By Wednesday, you catch yourself glancing at your phone more than usual, thumb hovering over his name in your contacts. It’s not even real longing yet, just a faint ache, the kind that makes you notice the little things- like the corner of the couch he leans against when he’s trying to act casual, or the way his lips curl when he laughs at something small, private. You try to shove it down, tell yourself he’s busy, that you’re fine, that you don’t need him blowing up your phone just to validate the little spark between you two.

But by Thursday afternoon, boredom has taken over. You’re sprawled on your couch, flipping through channels, absent-mindedly scrolling social media, when the emptiness of your apartment hits differently. The echo of Sunday -the movie, the teasing, the way he’d fall asleep with his hand in yours- starts creeping into your mind.

You bite your lip, almost laughing at yourself. You’re missing him, and you didn’t even realize it until this exact second. Not in a desperate way, not even in a need-to-call-him-now way- but enough that your chest feels a little warmer when you imagine his soft, teasing voice, his shy smiles, the way he’d lock eyes with you just to make you squirm a little.

You glance at your phone again, debating. You could text, just a small, teasing message- something that won’t make you look needy, just enough to remind him that you exist. Something playful. Something like…

You:So… are you busy or just ignoring me?

You laugh softly to yourself, shaking your head. Of course, it’s cheeky, not mean, not really serious- but it’s enough to make your stomach flutter at the thought of him reading it, maybe grinning, maybe flushing a little, maybe trying to figure out how to respond without losing his chill demeanor.

You hit send before thinking twice. And now the waiting begins- the kind of waiting that’s equal parts exciting and torturous, because you know he’ll respond eventually. He always does. And in the meantime… you can’t help replaying his soft, subtle dominance in your mind, how easy he makes everything feel even when he’s trying not to show it, and how much you’re already craving him again.

Minutes later, you’re lounging on your couch, scrolling aimlessly, when your phone finally buzzes. The screen flashes Drew S., and for a second, your stomach does that little flip. You bite your lip, hesitating, and then swipe to answer.

“Hey,” you say, deliberately nonchalant, tugging a loose curl behind your ear. You don’t let your voice carry the warmth you feel, even though you’re itching to.

“Hey.” His voice comes through, low and casual, like he’s just leaning back somewhere, but you catch the faint surprise underneath- he wasn’t expecting you to text after a week of radio silence. “I got your text.”

“Mm,” you hum, playing it cool, like it wasn’t a big deal that you’d missed him. “Thought I’d reach out. See what you’re up to.”

There’s a brief pause. You hear him shift, maybe leaning forward, maybe just thinking, then a small laugh. “Honestly? Not much. Filming, you know… but I was thinking about you.”

You suppress the little smile that wants to escape. “Mhm. Busy week, I’m sure.” You’re careful, casual, brushing past the edge of curiosity and desire.

“Yeah, busy,” he says, a note of shyness creeping in, like he’s still trying to hold onto that calm demeanor you love. “But I was hoping… maybe we could hang again soon. Not just… you know, movies.”

You pause, letting it hang. “Oh? And what did you have in mind?” You’re intentionally vague, letting the conversation tease itself out.

“Well…” he starts, then hesitates. “Maybe dinner, or… an arcade? Your choice.”

“Huh, I forgot about the arcade” You raise an eyebrow, pretending to consider. “I haven’t been to one in years. Are you sure you’re ready to lose badly?”

He laughs softly, the sound low and warm. “I think I can handle it. But… maybe I need some coaching. From you.”

You tap your fingers on the arm of the couch, letting him wait a beat. “I’ll think about it.” You give a small, teasing pause before finally adding, “Saturday work for you?”

“Saturday’s good,” he replies immediately, like he’d been hoping you’d pick that day. “I can make it anytime. You pick the time.”

You hum, casual, like it’s not a big deal. “Let’s say seven.”

“Perfect,” he says, voice soft, just a hint of that flustered, shy energy you love. “Looking forward to it.”

“Mm.” You hum again, brushing your hair back and standing to refill your water glass. “Me too… I guess.”

He chuckles quietly, the sound low, like he’s holding himself together. “Cool. I’ll see you then.”

You hang up, placing your phone down as though it were no big deal. But your heart is still racing a little, and your mind won’t stop replaying his voice, the way he said your name, the way he’s still this careful, shy, soft dominance that drives you wild.

You settle back onto the couch, pretending to scroll through social media, but your thoughts are entirely elsewhere-counting down to Saturday, wondering how much longer you’ll be able to play it cool.

-

Saturday rolls around faster than you expect, and you’re standing in front of your mirror, twisting slightly as you check yourself from every angle. You settle on low-waisted, slightly distressed jeans that hug your hips and a soft, cropped baby tee that leaves just a hint of skin exposed. Nothing overdone- just easy, casual, and the kind of outfit that says “effortless” without trying too hard.

Your phone buzzes, a text from Drew.

Drew S: I’m on my way. See you in a few.

You smile faintly, swiping it away as you grab your bag. You weren’t expecting him to insist on picking you up, but part of you likes it- likes that he’s calm, deliberate, and clearly enjoys the idea of being the one to come for you.

Minutes later, there’s a knock at your door. You take a deep breath, smoothing your hair casually, and open it. He’s there, standing in that effortlessly put-together way that makes your stomach do a little flip: jeans, a fitted white tee, leather jacket tossed over his shoulders, hands in his pockets.

“Hey,” he says, low and calm, giving off that chill, soft-spoken energy that you’ve grown to love. He leans slightly forward, like he’s keeping the moment intimate even at your doorway.

“Hey,” you reply, stepping up on your toes just a little and throwing your arms around him in a quick hug. Before he can fully react, you press a soft kiss to his cheek. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and then the smallest smile curls at the corner of his lips.

“Wow… didn’t expect that,” he murmurs, voice rougher than usual, just a little caught off guard, but there’s a warmth in his gaze that makes you think he likes it- maybe more than he’s letting on.

You shrug innocently, stepping back with a grin. “I’m full of surprises.”

He shakes his head, running a hand over his hair, the motion calm but clearly betraying a little fluster. “Yeah… I can see that.” His hands remain tucked in his pockets, but his eyes linger on you, scanning you up and down, subtle but attentive.

“Ready to go?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding, that controlled calm returning. “Let’s roll.”

The drive is easy, casual conversation sprinkled with small laughs, but beneath it, there’s that unspoken tension- the pull between you, the curiosity, the awareness of what the other does to you. By the time you pull up to the arcade, your stomach is buzzing in anticipation, and you realize just how much you’ve missed the thrill of being around him, even when he’s calm and collected.

The arcade lights hit you first- flashing, neon, chaotic in the best way. You step out of the car and pull the door open for him, letting him walk in first. He’s calm, hands still in his pockets, but there’s a subtle tension in his shoulders that betrays him. He glances back at you with that soft, unreadable gaze, and you feel your pulse pick up, like your chest remembers exactly why he has this effect on you.

“Wow,” you murmur under your breath, more to yourself than him, eyes sweeping over the games and the scent of popcorn and soda in the air.

He smirks faintly, letting you take it all in. “First time in one of these in a while?” His voice is low, casual, soft.

You shake your head, turning toward him, pretending to look around but really letting your eyes scan him- how relaxed he looks, that subtle curve of his jaw, the way the light catches the edge of his leather jacket. Your lips press together lightly. You’ll keep it to yourself.

“Not for a while. But I’m competitive,” you tease lightly, nudging his shoulder with yours as you pass.

He chuckles, a low sound that makes your stomach twist in a good way. “Oh, yeah? Confident you can beat me?”

“Absolutely. But you won’t see it coming,” you reply, ducking under the neon glow, letting your voice drop just a little as if you’re making a silent challenge.

You make your way to the bar area first, ordering two drinks. The bartender hands you a fruity cocktail -something red and sweet- and Drew gets a darker, stronger drink, amber with ice clinking softly. You take a sip of yours, the cold burning just enough to make you shiver.

“Cheers,” you say, holding your glass up toward him, eyes meeting his briefly. He touches your glass with his lightly, just enough, with that small smirk he always wears when he’s amused.

“Cheers,” he echoes, voice low, smooth.

You take a small sip, pretending to focus on your drink while sneaking glances at him. He’s just… watching the room, casual, but every now and then his eyes flick to you, soft, attentive, like he’s waiting for a move only you know he wants.

“Let’s see about that skee-ball game,” he says, nodding toward the nearest game, the corner of his mouth twitching in a small, teasing grin.

“Is that a challenge?” you raise an eyebrow, walking over and setting your drink onto the counter. “Because I accept all challenges.”

He tilts his head, that calm, easy confidence still there, though his jaw tightens just slightly. “Good. I like a girl who plays hard.”

You glance at him, smirk teasing, eyes drinking him in quickly before looking back at the game. Underneath that calm, soft-spoken exterior, you see it- the tension, the subtle thrill. And damn, he’s hot. So hot. But you don’t say a word. You just keep the teasing playful, letting it linger in the air like a dare.

He rolls up his sleeves casually and lines up his first shot at the skee-ball machine. “You’re going first,” he says, letting his voice drop just a hair lower, like he’s letting you take the lead.

You step up, grip the ball, and glance over your shoulder at him, smirk playing on your lips. “You sure you’re ready?”

His eyes meet yours briefly, warm, soft, a little daring, and he shrugs almost nonchalantly. “I’m always ready.”

And that’s when the night begins- the teasing, the challenge, the subtle touches, and the way the arcade lights seem to catch him in just the right way every time you look at him. You’re both laughing, flirting silently, the drinks making you bolder, the games giving you an excuse to brush against him or catch his glance in a way that feels electric, without him or anyone else saying a word.

Moments later you wander over to the basketball arcade game mostly out of curiosity, not confidence. The balls are oversized, the hoop looks deceptively far away, and the timer flashes like it’s already judging you.

“Oh no,” you laugh under your breath, rolling one of the balls between your palms. “This is a terrible idea.”

Drew steps up beside you, amused immediately as he swipes the game card. “You don’t play?”

You shoot him a look. “I don’t even watch.”

The buzzer goes off before he can respond, the timer starting its aggressive countdown. You panic just a little, tossing the first ball far too short. It bounces off the rim and ricochets back into the narrow pit.

“Oh my god,” you groan. “I look ridiculous.”

He laughs softly, not teasing- fond. “Okay, okay. Hold on.” He smiles, sitting his drink down.

Before you can protest, he steps closer. Not just beside you- behind you. Close enough that you feel the warmth of him before you feel anything else. His chest hovers just shy of your back, and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of how small the space is.

“Here,” he murmurs, voice low, calm, right near your ear. “You’re rushing it.”

His hands come to your waist briefly -quick, respectful, like he’s checking himself- then settle again, more confidently this time, thumbs resting at your hips like he’s grounding you. It sends a jolt straight through you, sharp and unexpected, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep your composure.

“Bend your knees a little,” he says, breath warm against your neck. “Yeah. Like that.”

You nod, swallowing hard, trying very hard to focus on the game instead of the way his voice drops when he’s this close, or how easily he fits behind you like he belongs there.

He reaches forward, guiding your arms gently, his hands covering yours just long enough to show you the motion. His fingers are warm. Steady. Everything about him feels deliberate.

“Don’t throw it,” he murmurs. “Just… push.”

You do- and the ball actually goes in.

You gasp, laughing. “Wait- did you see that?”

He chuckles softly, closer now, his mouth near your ear. “Told you.”

Another ball. Another shot. This one hits the rim but drops through anyway. The timer is still counting down, the sounds of the arcade buzzing around you, but it all fades into background noise. All you can feel is him- his hands briefly returning to your hips, the brush of his jacket against your back, the way he leans in without quite touching.

Your stomach flips, heat pooling low in a way that surprises you with its intensity. You straighten just a fraction, forcing yourself to breathe normally, to look casual- even though your pulse is racing.

“You’re doing great,” he adds quietly, almost like it’s just for you.

The buzzer goes off before you’re ready for it to end. You step forward instinctively, breaking the contact, turning to face him with a smile that you hope looks playful instead of affected.

“Beginner’s luck,” you say lightly, though your voice feels just a touch breathless.

He looks at you for a moment -really looks- eyes a little darker than before, expression soft but unreadable. Then he smiles, easy again, like he hasn’t just been standing impossibly close to you.

“Or maybe you’re just a natural,” he says.

You laugh it off, grabbing your drink, but your hands feel warm and your heart is still beating too fast.

And you know -he knows- that something shifted just now.

He glances down at the scoreboard, then back at you, grin easy and boyish like he’s still riding the high of standing behind you.

“Okay,” he says, nodding toward the row of machines. “Redemption round? Or maybe something you’re actually good at this time?”

You take a sip of your drink, eyes lingering on him longer than necessary. There’s something different now- less teasing, more intent. You can still feel his hands on your hips if you think about it long enough.

You tilt your head slightly. “Actually…”

He pauses, attention sharpening immediately. “Yeah?”

You step a little closer, lowering your voice- not secretive, just deliberate. Like you’ve already decided.

“Would it be weird if we just… went back to your place?”

The question hangs between you, heavier than the arcade noise, heavier than the music and the laughter and the clatter of machines. For half a second, he just looks at you- processing, recalibrating.

Then his eyebrows lift, surprised but unmistakably pleased.

“Uh,” he lets out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “No. No, that wouldn’t be weird.”

You watch him closely as he adds, carefully, “I mean- only if that’s what you want.”

You shrug, casual again, even though your pulse jumps. “Sounds better than losing another game.”

That gets a real smile out of him- soft, a little dazed, like he’s trying not to read too much into it.

“Okay,” he says, already reaching for his jacket. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

And as you turn to leave together, you catch the way he glances at you once more- quick, like he’s checking to make sure this is actually happening.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

The drive is quiet, but in a comfortable way- the kind of quiet that isn’t awkward because neither of you feel the need to fill it. He navigates the suburban streets easily, headlights cutting through the early evening fog. Houses with neat lawns and warm glows in the windows slide by, grounding the scene, making it feel almost ordinary… except for the electricity crackling in the car between you.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye, noticing the slight way his jaw tightens when he concentrates, or the way he hums along softly to a song on the radio without thinking. It’s subtle, but it makes your stomach twist in anticipation.

When he pulls into his driveway, the car’s engine clicks off. You both sit for a moment, letting the tension stretch just a little longer.

“You wanna come in?” he asks, voice casual, like he isn’t thinking about the obvious reason you’re both here.

“Yeah,” you say, already unlocking your side.

The house is warm, lived-in but clean, the kind of place that feels inviting without being staged. You take a small tour in your head as you step in, letting yourself relax slightly, like you belong there- even if only temporarily.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, dropping his keys on the counter and heading for the cabinet. A second later, you hear the clink of glasses.

He returns with two short glasses and a bottle of whiskey. “Thought we could start with something small,” he says, sitting back on the edge of the couch and holding a glass out to you.

You take it, letting your fingers brush his just slightly, and nod. “Perfect.”

You sink down into the couch, crossing your legs under you. He sits a little apart but close enough that you can feel his presence, the warmth radiating from his side. You raise your glass briefly. “Cheers,” you murmur, letting the whiskey burn as it slides down.

He smirks, letting his gaze linger on you for just a beat too long. “Cheers,” he says, voice low, calm, but with a weight you can feel in your chest.

You take a slow sip, letting the warmth settle in. For a few minutes, you talk about nothing important- music, a random TV show, the absurdity of the arcade. You’re laughing softly, letting the conversation drift, but every laugh, every glance, every brush of his hand across the couch fabric reminds you both why you’re really here.

At one point, you tilt your head, watching him with a little smirk. “You know,” you say, voice teasing but soft, “we could just skip all the small talk if you wanted.”

He raises an eyebrow, letting a slow smile spread across his face. “And do what exactly?” he asks, still keeping his composure, still calm- but you catch that quick flicker of want in his eyes.

You shrug, casual, playful. “You tell me.”

He leans back slightly, studying you for a moment, hands loosely wrapped around his glass. The subtle shift in his posture is enough- there’s anticipation there, restraint, but you can feel the undercurrent of him already imagining what’s next.

You take another sip, slow, deliberate, letting the tension hang in the air. For a moment, you just sit there, letting the whiskey warm your hands and the quiet stretch between you. Both of you know what’s coming- but for now, it’s just the two of you, the soft clink of glasses, and the unspoken agreement hanging heavier than words ever could.

You shift on the couch, letting the warmth of the whiskey settle in your chest, and slowly, deliberately, you slide closer to him. Before he can react, you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of him, hands brushing his shoulders as you lean in. Your lips hover just above his, teasing, soft, inviting.

He doesn’t move forward. Instead, his hands find your hips, steadying you, but not in the same urgent way you’d expected. You catch the hesitation in his chest against yours, the slight tension under your thighs. Then, almost imperceptibly, he shifts back just enough to create space, his hands holding your hips- not pushing you away, but steadying you. His voice is low, calm, gentle.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your side, “we don’t have to do this right now.”

You raise an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Don’t want to?” you tease lightly, though the heat in your chest tells you it’s more than that.

“I do,” he admits, voice almost a whisper, “I just… I like being with you, and I don’t want this to be only that.”

You pause, caught in the shift- the way he says it, soft and deliberate, the kind of restraint that makes your stomach coil. You catch the faint blush in his cheeks, the tiny part of him that wants to give in, but doesn’t.

He leans back slightly, enough to guide your hips down, and offers a crooked smile. “How about we just… watch a movie or something first?”

You let out a breath, half-laughing, half-sighing, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Movie, huh? Keeping it classy?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “We’ve got time for everything else later.”

And just like that, the heat isn’t completely gone -it lingers, thick and delicious- but now it’s layered with a tease of anticipation. He’s close, present, intoxicating, and he’s making you wait… carefully, deliberately, like he’s savoring more than just the physical.

You settle into him anyway, arms around his neck, leaning against him as he presses a soft kiss to your temple. He’s restrained, but it’s impossible to ignore the tension humming between you both, the unspoken promise that the night isn’t over- just… paused.

You pull back slightly, letting out a soft huff as you slide off his lap and settle back onto the couch next to him. You don’t say it, but the small crease in your brow and the little roll of your eyes say it all- this wasn’t supposed to be a lovey-dovey evening. You just wanted the heat, the friction, the rush of him. Not… whatever this is.

He glances at you, just briefly, catching the shift in your energy, but he doesn’t press it. Instead, he reaches for the remote, flipping through options with calm, deliberate movements, as if the tension between you is just another layer of the evening’s entertainment. His focus is on the screen, but his presence is heavy, magnetic, almost like a gentle weight you can’t shake.

You reach for your phone, sliding your thumb over the screen. A small plan hatches in your mind, something to distract yourself from the momentarily complicated vibe. You quickly type a message to Yasmine:

You: Call me in like, five minutes. Say you have an emergency. Please.

You set the phone down just as Drew glances your way, his eyebrows slightly raised but his lips tugging at a quiet smile. He doesn’t say anything, just leans back, letting the silence stretch between you as you tuck your legs under yourself.

You pick up your phone again, pretending to scroll through something urgent while sneaking peeks at him. He’s flipping through the streaming menu like he’s carefully deciding what you’ll both “enjoy” tonight, but his shoulders are relaxed, his body language soft. There’s a tension there too, the kind that simmers quietly after what you two already shared, but it’s controlled- he’s controlled.

You glance over at him, catching him in the corner of your eye, and bite back a smile. He’s so calm, so impossibly composed, and yet you can feel the pull of him, the warmth lingering from earlier. It’s frustrating and enticing all at once.

Then your phone buzzes. Yasmine’s calling. You answer, murmuring a quiet, “Hello?” and let her drag you into her “emergency,” all the while keeping one eye on Drew. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t ask, just watches, letting you run the show- but there’s a flicker in his eyes, a hint of curiosity, of mild amusement, that makes your chest tighten.

You sit up, letting the tension melt into quiet mischief. You’re annoyed, slightly, that the night took a softer turn than you wanted- but that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun with it. You turn towards him, hand brushing against his shoulder as you keep your focus split between the fake emergency call and the man next to you, and for a moment, it’s exactly what you wanted: him close, alive, teasing, but not overbearing.

You tug your phone away from your ear and give Yasmine a quick nod though she can’t see you. “Yeah, I’ll be right there,” you say, voice calm but a little clipped, already slipping into your jacket as you stand.

Drew watches silently, leaning back against the couch with his usual cool posture, but there’s something in the set of his shoulders that betrays him- just a little.

“You want me to drive you?” he asks casually, though his tone carries that quiet, subtle hopefulness he can’t quite hide.

You shake your head, looping your bag over your shoulder. “Nah, I’ll grab an Uber. Shouldn’t be long.”

He exhales softly, almost a sigh, eyes flicking down to the floor for a second before returning to you. “Right… yeah, okay.” There’s a small crease between his brows, the barest hint of disappointment tugging at his expression. You know exactly what it is- and he knows you know.

“I’m… sorry,” he murmurs quietly as he stands with you, voice low, almost reverent. “If you wanted more tonight.”

You shrug, keeping your face neutral, voice casual. “Nah, it’s fine. I just… gotta help her, that’s all.”

But both of you know it’s a lie. You’re leaving because he didn’t let the night go the way you wanted it to go. He wanted more than a hookup, and you… well, you weren’t ready to give that to him tonight.

Drew steps closer, just a little, the distance between you charged but respectful. “I get it,” he says softly, eyes meeting yours. “I really do. I just…  I think we should try-”

You cut him off with a small smile, light and teasing, though there’s a hint of truth in it. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” You turn slightly, moving toward the door, keeping your voice easy, brushing past him just enough to remind him you’re in control of the night’s ending.

He watches you go, silent for a beat, before nodding, letting you take the lead. There’s a softness in his expression, a mix of longing and respect that doesn’t need words. You both know the truth, but neither says it aloud.

As the door clicks shut behind you, you can almost feel him exhale from the other side. And even as you step outside and get into your Uber, you can’t shake the little twist in your chest- part satisfaction, part frustration, part anticipation for the next time you’ll see him.

The Uber ride is quiet. You stare out the window at the blur of streetlights, trying to untangle your thoughts. Part of you is still buzzing from the night -the whiskey, the closeness, the tension- but another part is nagging at you: guilt, because he knows exactly why you left when you did.

When you finally reach your apartment, you slip inside quickly, setting your bag down and sinking into the couch. The door clicks softly behind you, and your phone vibrates almost immediately. It’s him. You swipe to answer, nerves twisting just a little.

“Hey,” he says, voice calm but threaded with concern.

“Hey,” you murmur.

“You okay? How’s your friend?” There’s genuine care in his tone, the kind of soft attention that makes your chest tighten.

“She’s fine now,” you reply, keeping it short. “All good. Nothing major.” You don’t go into detail- you don’t want him to dig into the faked emergency, not right now.

There’s a pause. Then he says, quietly, almost shyly, “I… had a really great time tonight.”

You glance down at your hands, picking at the edge of the couch cushion. “Mm.” You don’t say yes. You don’t disagree either.

“Hey,” he continues softly, “I’m sorry if I made it feel like I was only into this.… for one thing.”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t. Really.”

Another pause, the line carrying the weight of unsaid things. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Good. I just… wanted you to know.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” you reply, voice quieter now, reflective.

And just like that, you both hang up. The apartment is still and quiet around you, and the realization sinks in: you feel… shitty. Not about him -he’s genuinely kind, respectful, the kind of person who makes you feel seen even when you’re holding back- but about yourself. About how you pushed, pulled, and left things unfinished because you weren’t ready to let the night mean anything more than… what you wanted it to mean.

You lean back, staring at the ceiling, chest tightening. It wasn’t a bad night. It was… complicated. And now, alone, you have to wrestle with that little sting in your chest: wanting him, knowing he’s good for you, and also being stubborn enough not to let yourself say it out loud.

-

The apartment smells faintly of takeout and candles as you slump onto the couch, a glass of red wine in your hand. Your friends are sprawled across the living room -half on the floor, half on the other couch- giggling over some nonsense on TikTok. You take a slow sip, letting the warmth of the wine hit your belly, though it barely masks the gnawing irritation that’s been building all week.

It’s been a week and a half since the last time you’ve spoken to Drew. A week and a half. And while part of you is annoyed that he hasn’t reached out -you’re not even sure why you’re annoyed, exactly- another part of you is tense, restless, missing him in ways you won’t admit even to yourself. And if that wasn’t enough, your period’s making every little thing sharper, every wine sip burn a little hotter, every teasing glance from your friends a little more pointed.

“You’ve been awfully quiet tonight,” Clarissa says suddenly, stretching out on the floor. She tilts her wine glass toward you with a grin. “Something wrong, or are you just… pouting like a baby?”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “I’m not pouting.”

“Oh, come on,” Yasmine laughs, plopping down next to you with her glass in hand. “Don’t act like we don’t know you. You’ve been… grumpy all week. And what’s with that face?” She leans closer, squinting like she’s inspecting a crime scene.

You shrug, taking another sip of your wine, trying to look casual. “I’m just… tired.”

“Tired?” Clarissa snorts. “You’re not tired. You’re missing someone. Admit it.”

You glance at them, lips pressed together, pretending to think. “Mm… maybe I’m just… appreciating the drama of wine and friends?”

Yasmine laughs, nudging your arm. “Yeah, sure. If by chaos you mean your sulking about a certain Drew Starkey, then yeah, totally drama.”

You groan, rolling onto your side dramatically, a hand pressed to your forehead. “I’m not missing him,” you mumble, even though a small pang of longing tightens in your chest. “And even if I was, I wouldn’t say it.”

Clarissa smirks, giving you a pointed look. “Uh-huh. Sure. That’s why you keep checking your phone every five minutes, huh?”

You bite your lip, wine glass hovering mid-air. They notice. They always notice. You swish the wine around in your glass to distract yourself -and them- from the truth: that even though he hasn’t reached out, even though your period’s making everything sharper, you can’t stop thinking about him. About his voice, the way he looks at you, the way he makes you feel simultaneously frustrated and… something else.

Yasmine leans in closer, whispering conspiratorially, “Honestly, we should just call him. Make him sweat a little. I mean, you’re clearly suffering over there.”

“Yeah,” Clarissa adds, grinning wickedly. “Send him a little reminder that you exist. Make him miss you for a change.”

You roll your eyes, swirling your wine, trying to act indifferent, but the faintest smirk tugs at your lips. Maybe… maybe just a little.

-

The door clicks behind her friends as they leave, their laughter and teasing fading down the hallway. You slump onto the couch, the apartment suddenly quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside. The wine glasses are cleared, but the warmth of the night -and the lingering buzz of your mood- remains. You pick up your phone, thumb hovering over the screen. 

You: Hey. 

Simple. Minimal. Safe. You hit send and set the phone down, half-expecting nothing.

But a second later, your phone rings. You glance at the screen.

Drew S

“Hello?” you answer, trying to sound casual, though your chest is tightening.

“Hey,” he says, calm, steady, almost gentle- but the seriousness under his tone makes your stomach twist. “I… saw your message.”

You hum, nervously twisting your hair around your finger. “Yeah… just wanted to say hi.”

A pause stretches across the line. Then he sighs, low and deliberate, like he’s been holding something in for a while. “Look… I didn’t reach out sooner because I wasn’t sure where we stood after the other night. I didn’t want to assume anything, and I didn’t want to… bother you if you weren’t feeling the same.”

Your lips part slightly, caught off-guard. He’s not joking, not teasing. He’s steady. Serious. Your stomach knots.

“I like you,” he says finally, clearly, directly. “I like spending time with you, the way you make me feel… and I’m looking for something real. Something… serious.”

You shift on the couch, silence stretching in the empty apartment.

“But I also need to be honest with myself,” he continues, voice calm but firm. “I’m not going to be the person you call when you’re bored or lonely, or just looking for a hookup. That’s not fair to either of us. If that’s all you want, I need to know now, so I can find someone who’s actually looking for the same thing I am.”

You’re quiet, frozen. This isn’t what you were expecting. You thought maybe he’d text back casually, flirt a little- but not this. Not intention. Not boundaries.

“I-” you start, then stop, realizing there’s nothing to argue with. He’s laid it out, sharp and real and somehow… intimidating.

“Take your time,” he adds softly, letting the silence stretch between you. “But I needed to say it. I can’t just… wait around wondering if we’re on the same page.”

You close your mouth, blinking down at the phone. Words fail you. You hadn’t expected to be met with honesty like this, clear and deliberate, especially in the quiet of your empty apartment.

Finally, he exhales. “Okay. I’ll let you go. Talk soon?”

“Yeah…” you whisper, still at a loss for words. You hang up, thumb hovering over the screen for another message, but you don’t type. The apartment is still, except for the soft hum outside, and your thoughts are spinning. One thing is certain: this conversation just changed everything.

The apartment is quiet, the soft hum of the city outside the windows the only sound. You flop back against the couch, arms tucked behind your head, and stare at the ceiling. Your friends’ laughter has faded, and now the emptiness of your place feels heavier, almost deafening.

You replay the conversation with Drew in your head, word by word. How calm he sounded, how sure, how impossibly sincere. How he didn’t just say he liked you -he made it clear he wanted more than casual, more than late-night messiness. The boundaries? That hit you harder than you expected. Not because it was a threat, but because it showed he valued himself -and you- enough to be honest.

Your stomach twists with that familiar pull: a mix of longing, guilt, and the tiniest flutter of excitement. You realize you miss him. Not just the sex, not just the adrenaline of sneaking around or the thrill of a late-night hookup- but him. His voice. His presence. The way he looks at you when he’s trying not to look at you too much.

Your phone rests on the coffee table, screen dark. You stare at it, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. You could wait, play it cool, let him think you’re uninterested… but the thought of him waiting, wondering where you stand, makes your chest tighten. You bite your lip, exhale slowly, and finally pick it up.

Okay, you tell yourself. Just say it. Don’t overthink.

You type, slowly at first, each letter deliberate:

You: I like you too.

You reread it, heart hammering in your chest. Short. Simple. True. No games. No teasing. Just you finally being honest, letting him know that, despite your usual push-and-pull energy, the feeling is mutual.

You hit send and set the phone down, staring at the ceiling again. The hum outside the window feels softer now, more comforting. And somewhere deep down, you can’t help the small, satisfied smile curling at your lips.

Allegra and Noel are already seated at a circular table near the windows, two empty chairs waiting across from them. Allegra’s sunglasses are perched dramatically on her head like she might be photographed at any moment. Noel sits with her hands wrapped around a glass of water, posture neat, eyes scanning the room.

Beau hesitates near the entrance, scanning the restaurant. “He’s not here yet,” he mutters.

“Good,” Becca says. “We didn’t come all this way for you to immediately get kidnapped.”

You smile faintly as Beau reluctantly chooses a nearby table instead- close enough to yours to see, close enough that Becca could realistically leap to his defense if needed- not that she was big enough to do so. He drops into the chair, phone back out in his hand.

“I’ll give him fifteen minutes,” he says.

“You said that ten minutes ago,” Becca fires back.

You and Becca head for Allegra and Noel. The moment Allegra spots you, everything changes.

She gasps loudly and shoves her chair back with zero shame. “Oh. My. God-”

Noel stands at the same time, smiling like she’s afraid she might cry. They both rush you at once, wrapping their arms around you like time never passed at all. You laugh softly into the space between them, shoulders relaxing for the first time since you set foot back in the city.

This- this feeling of being loved out loud. Of being welcomed without condition. It settles somewhere deep in your chest. And still, quietly, there’s that familiar ache beneath it- the knowledge of whose love you wish you were feeling like this from.

They pull back, and Allegra immediately drops her gaze to your stomach. “Officially the hottest mom ever,” she declares.

Noel nods earnestly. “You really are glowing.”

You laugh, cheeks warming as your hand drifts instinctively to your belly. Becca drops into her chair beside you with a huff.

“Don’t hype her too much,” Becca warns. “She’s fragile.”

Allegra smirks. “Please. She’s thriving.”

Across the restaurant, you spot Beau still watching the door, phone in hand- waiting on a future that hasn’t quite arrived yet. By the time all four of you finally slow down from catching up on each other’s lives -everyone’s stories loud, overlapping, full of movement- your breakfast arrives, carried out in warm, fragrant waves. Two -yes, two- plates of perfectly golden French toast are set down first, each slice thick and soft, crowned with a melting pad of butter and dusted generously with powdered sugar. Fresh strawberry slices sit vivid and red against the white. Then come the cheesy scrambled eggs, steaming and fluffy, followed by a chilled fruit bowl glistening with color. Your stomach growls before you even register it. So does the baby.

You laugh under your breath and place a hand absentmindedly over your belly as if to hush her. You force yourself to wait, polite for once, giving time for everyone’s food to arrive before you finally dig in. But the second you do? All dignity is gone. You eat like you’ve never seen food before.

Thankfully, no one judges. Or at least- they’re understanding about it. Conversation barrels on around you while you chew and chew and chew, barely acknowledged for being halfway feral.

Noel is in the middle of recounting how she recently sold a piece to “some absolute creep” who then immediately tried to hit on her and then, mid-sentence, she freezes. Her eyes flick toward the entrance. She chokes. Like, actually- chokes.

There’s a violent cough, a sharp gasp, panic tightening her face as she tries to breathe and laugh at the same time. Allegra is instantly on her feet, pounding carefully at her back while Becca shoves Noel’s water toward her and jams the straw into the cup.

“You okay?” you manage to ask, despite your cheeks being so full you feel like a literal chipmunk, eyes wide as you watch the chaos unfold.

Noel waves them off weakly as she finally gets air back into her lungs, taking a long sip of water.

“Holy shit,” she rasps once she can breathe again. “He’s hot.”

“Who?” Becca asks immediately, leaning forward like this is middle school gossip and she’s about to hear the tea.

Noel lifts one discreet finger and points toward the front door. All three of you follow the direction of her hand. You turn slowly, still chewing. And then- Oh. It’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. No- actually. Literally. He’s tall, built in that quiet, effortless way like he doesn’t even have to try. Broad shoulders under a simple fitted t-shirt, long legs in dark slacks. His hair is dark and thick, just long enough to fall forward when he moves. His features are sharp but somehow soft at the same time- strong jaw, straight nose, eyes that look like they could be kind or dangerous depending on the day. Young movie-star handsome. Like the kind of man that doesn’t look real in real life. Like he belongs on a screen, not hovering awkwardly near a hostess stand. Like a business casual Clark Kent. You realize you’ve stopped chewing. Your mouth is still completely full.

Becca sucks in a loud breath through her teeth. “Okay… wow.”

Allegra squints. “Is it illegal to be that attractive casually at breakfast?”

Noel whispers, still traumatized, “I almost died.”

Across the room, blissfully unaware of the havoc he’s causing, the man shifts his weight, scanning the restaurant like he’s looking for someone who hasn’t arrived yet. Breakfast stretches on, the initial shock dulling just enough for conversation to find its footing again. Plates clink. Coffee is refilled. The restaurant settles back into its low, ambient hum. You focus on your food. You eat slower now, one hand resting absently against your belly as the conversation drifts around you- Allegra complaining about a casting director who refused to take her dad’s bribery to get her into a film, Noel talking about a commission she might finally say yes to, Becca half-listening while scrolling through her phone.

A few minutes pass. Then chairs scrape softly against tile. You don’t look up right away. Beau’s voice reaches you first.

“My sister and her friends,” he mutters, clearly to someone beside him. That’s what makes you glance up. Beau stops at the edge of your table, one hand hooked in his pocket, the other gesturing toward the man next to him. The Clark Kent man.

“Hey,” Beau says, a little less casual than usual. “This is Jessie. Jessie Eddison. My business partner.”

Jessie steps forward with an easy smile.

“Hi,” he says. Calm. Polite. “Nice to meet you.”

He shakes Allegra’s hand, then Noel’s, then Becca’s- each interaction brief, respectful, practiced. When he turns to you, his attention doesn’t linger, but it does register. His gaze dips for the smallest fraction of a second -not long enough to feel like staring, just long enough to acknowledge your round belly- before returning to your face. You hate that you notice it. You give him your hand anyway.

“Hi,” he says again, tone unchanged.

“Hello,” you answer, equally neutral.

You pull your hand back and reach for your fork, already shifting your attention elsewhere. Jessie doesn’t comment or react, just steps back slightly, folding his hands together like he’s content to stand where he is.

“Well,” Beau says, clapping his hands once. “That’s everyone.”

Jessie smiles. “I won’t interrupt.”

“You’re not,” Allegra says automatically.

Becca shoots her a look. Jessie chuckles quietly but doesn’t move to sit. “I’ll catch you guys later.” He nods once and turns back toward Beau’s table. Conversation resumes around you almost immediately, overlapping voices filling the space he leaves behind. Noel exhales softly. Allegra leans back in her chair. Becca glances at you, searching your face. You take another bite of food, chewing slowly, letting the noise swallow the moment before it can become anything else. Across the room, Beau pulls out a chair. Jessie sits. You don’t look again.

-

After paying, the four of you stand and begin gathering your things. Chairs scrape softly against the floor, purses are slung back onto shoulders, shopping bags looped over wrists. Without thinking, your eyes flick toward Beau first- then drift to Jessie. They’re still deep in whatever conversation they’ve been having since he arrived, heads angled toward each other, bodies relaxed. It looks easy. Familiar.

As the rest of you start talking over one another -half-formed plans about walking, shopping, finding somewhere to sit- you excuse yourself and step away, heading for the restroom for the third time since you arrived.

The bathroom is quiet. Cool. You wash your hands a little longer than necessary, watching the soap swirl down the drain before reaching into your purse. When you unlock your phone, there’s a text waiting. From Rafe. Your brows knit together in surprise, but you open it anyway.

Rafe: Hey. Where are you?

You tilt your head slightly, the question sitting wrong in your chest. Why does he want to know where you are? Why now? Another message comes through before you can decide whether to respond.

Rafe: I’m sitting outside the doctor’s office. You have an appointment today…

Your jaw tightens. You type back quickly, decisively.

You: I rescheduled it. I had to go out of town for a while.

The typing bubbles appear almost immediately. Then stop. Nothing else follows. You stare at the screen for a beat longer than you mean to, then slip your phone back into your purse and exhale, squaring your shoulders before leaving the bathroom. The girls are waiting near the door when you rejoin them, mid-conversation.

“So where are we headed next?” Allegra asks. “Shopping? Or resting y/n’s feet like responsible adults?”

“That would be nice, actually,” you say with a smile. They hadn’t seen you approach.

They laugh as Becca pushes the door open, warm summer air spilling inside and wrapping around you.

“We should do a karaoke night,” Noel says as you step out onto the sidewalk. “All of our friends. Snacks, drinks, pizza.”

“Pizza sounds good,” you blurt out without thinking, even though you just ate.

“And games,” Becca adds.

“I’ll start texting the group chat,” Allegra says, already pulling out her phone.

You glance back once, toward the restaurant now shrinking in the distance. Through the window, Beau and Jessie are still seated, likely just getting their food now. The sight passes through you without sticking. Turning back, you nudge Becca’s arm gently. “Make sure you let Beau know where we’re going.”

“He’s fine,” she says, scrolling. “He can find his way back to the hotel.”

You chuckle softly.

“Ooh- before we do that, we have to spoil y/n and the baby,” Noel gasps suddenly. Her hands find your belly before she bends down and presses a quick, affectionate kiss there.

You laugh, shaking your head, instinctively rubbing your stomach afterward. “You guys don’t have to do that.”

“We know,” Allegra says, already flagging down a car. “But this is the first baby in the friend group. She’s getting spoiled whether you like it or not.”

⸻

When you arrive at Allegra and Noel’s apartment building, nostalgia hits you harder than expected. As you wait for Noel to unlock the door, your eyes drift -unbidden- to the apartment across from theirs. Your old one.

It looks smaller than you remember. Quieter. Like something preserved behind glass. Seeing it feels like looking into a different lifetime, one you barely recognize as yours anymore. You’re pulled back to the present when the door opens and Noel steps inside. The weight of the shopping bags in your arms suddenly feels heavier, more real. You step forward anyway.

Their apartment still smells the same -cinnamon and oranges, warm and familiar- and you take a slow, steady inhale as the door closes behind you. It settles something in your chest, the kind of comfort you didn’t realize you’d been craving. Noel gently takes the shopping bags from your arms, her touch careful, considerate, and sets them down by the entryway like she’s done this a hundred times before.

“What kind of pizza are we getting?” Becca asks, already kicking off her kitten heels and padding farther inside like the place is her own.

“I was thinking cheese, pepperoni, and meat lovers,” Allegra calls out, disappearing into her bedroom. “Oh- and Sienna, Myra, Owen, Mario, and Jack are all coming.”

“Oh!” Noel perks up immediately. “We should get ice cream. Like- multiple flavors. And toppings. We can do an ice cream bar.”

The apartment hums with movement as she starts tidying instinctively. It’s colorful and lived-in- bright throw pillows, framed art, little knickknacks that feel intentional. You’re almost certain that’s Noel’s influence, and Allegra just lets it happen. After helping clean up, you and Becca decorate, stringing fairy lights across the living room and arranging bowls of candy and toppings along the table. Allegra and Noel drag the karaoke machine out of Allegra’s room, fiddling with cords until it finally connects to the TV. Soon enough, the doorbell starts ringing.

Myra and Mario arrive first, both of them lighting up the moment they see you.

“Look at the belly!” Myra squeals, voice pitching high as she steps closer.

You laugh, hugging both of them as they gush, your stomach undeniably more noticeable now- nothing dramatic, but enough to mark the passage of time.

“Hey, how’s Marie?” Mario asks once he pulls back, his hands briefly resting on your shoulders.

You pause just long enough for it to register. “Uh… I’m not sure,” you say lightly. “Maybe you should reach out and ask her?”

You do know how Marie’s doing- but him asking you instead of her feels wrong. This is your subtle nudge, and he seems to catch it, nodding thoughtfully. When he steps away, you glance over at Becca, who gives the faintest eye roll before politely greeting Myra. You clock it but let it go. You’ve learned when not to get involved.

Owen and Jack arrive next, both effortlessly good-looking. You hug Jack first -quick, warm, familiar enough- and then there’s Owen. He looks exactly the same as the last time you saw him at your engagement party. If anything, he looks even better. Relaxed. Grounded.

“Hey, you,” he says with a smile, arms opening slowly.

You don’t hesitate. You step into him, arms looping around his neck, and for a second the room disappears. You breathe in his teakwood scent, your eyes fluttering shut before you realize you’ve done it.

You both pull away quickly, laughing softly, like you’ve been caught in something unspoken.

“Look at you,” you say, resting a hand on your hip before reaching up and lacing your fingers through his hair, deliberately messing up the style he clearly worked on. “If I’m not mistaken, this might be the first time I’ve ever seen you without a camera.”

“Not so fast,” he says, grinning as he pulls a small digital camera from his pocket.

You laugh, taking it from him and flipping it over in your hands. “At least your neck can rest,” you say, biting your lip as you smile before handing it back.

“Yeah… yeah,” he trails off, then gestures vaguely toward you. Toward your stomach. “But look at you. You’re-”

“Yeah,” you say softly, glancing down and rubbing your belly. The smile falters for just a second before you smooth it back into place.

“You look amazing,” he finally says, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s relieved to have landed on the right words.

“Thank you, Owen.” You give him a small push, playful, affectionate.

He chuckles and moves off to join the others, already teasing Allegra, who predictably swats at him. You watch the group gather -hugging, laughing, overlapping voices- and only then do you feel Becca’s eyes on you. You step closer to her, both of you watching instead of joining.

“What was that?” she asks.

“What was what?” you reply, eyes drifting briefly to Allegra and Jack’s interaction- his hand sneaking a little too low, her smacking his arm but smiling all the same.

Becca doesn’t answer right away. You turn to find her staring at you, suspicious and unreadable.

“What?” you ask again, heat creeping into your cheeks.

“Nothing,” she says too calmly, raising her hands in surrender.

You don’t believe her for a second but you let it go. Sienna is the last to arrive. The door swings open just as Allegra is dramatically untangling the cords of the karaoke machine, and Sienna steps in with a laugh, tossing her bag onto the chair like she never missed a beat.

“I swear you guys only start without me,” she says, arms already out.

The room erupts- hellos overlapping, hugs traded in a messy cluster. Sienna freezes mid-embrace when she finally looks at you, her eyes dropping to your stomach.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, softer now. “You.”

You smile before she even reaches you, arms opening. Her hug is careful, grounding, the kind that lingers just long enough to say I’m here without needing the words. Soon the apartment is full- music playing, voices raised, laughter bouncing off the walls. Someone hands you a soda in a plastic cup. Someone else insists you sit, then immediately forgets and pulls you up again when your song comes on. Karaoke turns chaotic fast.

Allegra belts like she’s auditioning for something serious. Jack takes backup vocals way too seriously. Myra and Noel scream-sing together, arms locked. Mario records everything on his phone, narrating like a documentary no one asked for.

You’re laughing -really laughing- when Owen appears at your side, close enough that your arms brush.

“You good?” he asks, leaning down slightly so only you can hear him over the noise.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Just… overstimulated in a good way.”

He smiles at that, his hand briefly touching your elbow as he gestures you toward the couch when someone starts jumping dangerously close. It’s quick, barely there- but when he lets go, you feel the absence of it.

-

Later, when you’re all packed onto the couch, knees overlapping, you catch him watching you during a quieter song. His gaze isn’t heavy or curious- just soft. Familiar. When the couch shifts and you lose your balance slightly, his hand finds your lower back automatically, steadying you before either of you really think about it.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“It’s okay,” you say, just as quietly.

At one point, he hands you a bowl of ice cream he somehow knows is exactly what you want. Chocolate, extra strawberries. No questions.

“Thanks,” you say, fingers brushing his as you take it.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. Neither do you. Sienna ends up beside you later, her arm slung around your shoulders as the room hums with noise and comfort.

“This,” she says softly, nodding around at everyone, “feels right.”

You swallow, emotion tightening your throat, and lean into her just a little. Across the room, Owen laughs at something Jack says, throwing his head back. When he looks back at you, your eyes meet- and for a brief moment, the noise fades. You don’t feel fixed.But you feel held. And for now, that’s enough.

You’re in the middle of laughing -really laughing- watching Mario and Allegra absolutely scream their hearts out to “No Air” like their lives depend on it, when your phone buzzes against your thigh.

You barely glance at it at first. Then you do. Rafe. Your smile falters. Just a little. Enough that Becca notices from across the room. You flip the phone over.

Rafe: Where are you?

Your brows knit together, a knot forming low in your chest. You weren’t expecting a text from him tonight. You especially weren’t expecting this- the way it already feels like it’s pressing in on your space. You type back.

You: I told you I’m out of town.

The typing bubbles appear almost immediately. Disappear. Come back.

Rafe: Who are you with?

Your jaw tightens Excuse me? You don’t even get the chance to respond before his name lights up your screen, vibrating insistently in your hand. He’s calling. Your body stiffens as if it recognizes the shift before your brain does.

“You okay?” Owen asks quietly, his hand coming to rest on your upper back- steady, grounding. Not possessive. Just there.

“Yeah- yeah,” you say quickly, forcing a breath. You glance toward Noel, who’s perched on the arm of the couch. “Is there somewhere I can take this?”

“Yeah,” she says immediately, pointing. “My room- down the hall.”

You push yourself up with a soft grunt, ignoring the way your pelvis protests, and hurry down the hallway before the call can roll over to voicemail. Noel’s room is exactly what you remember- bright yellow walls, sketches taped up in chaotic clusters, half-finished ideas everywhere. An unmade bed. An easel in the corner with a painting still waiting to be finished. It smells faintly like acrylic paint and citrus cleaner. You answer before you can overthink it.

“Hello?” you say, keeping your voice even.

“Where are you?” Rafe asks again.

He doesn’t sound angry. He sounds… pointed. Like he already thinks he knows the answer. You lean against the edge of the bed, crossing your arms loosely over your belly.

“Why do you think you’re entitled to know where I am?” you ask.

There’s a pause. Just long enough to tell you he didn’t expect that.

“Why are you avoiding my question?” he shoots back.

“I’m not avoiding anything,” you say calmly. Too calmly. “I just don’t owe you an explanation. Last time I checked, you’re not my boyfriend. Or my fiancé. So I get to decide what I answer.”

He exhales on the other end- too slow, too heavy.

“I want to make sure my child is being carried responsibly.”

That does it. Your spine straightens, heat flashing through your chest. And only now do you really hear it- the slight drag in his words, the looseness around the edges. He’s been drinking.

You laugh once, sharp and humorless.

“Okay,” you say. “You want to know that badly? I’m in New York. I’m with my friends. There.”

Silence.

Then, quieter, “New York?”

“Yes. New York,” you repeat. “I’m not at a bar. I’m not doing anything reckless. I’m eating pizza, singing karaoke, and sitting down every fifteen minutes because my back hurts.”

Another pause.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to New York.”

“I told you I was out of town,” you say. “That was the information you’re barely entitled to.”

His voice drops. Not softer- just heavier. “There any guys there?”

Your breath catches- not because of guilt, but because of the audacity. “Rafe,” you say slowly, carefully, “this is exactly why we are not together.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” you correct. “That’s a boundary.”

You hear him swallow. A chair scrape. Maybe he’s sitting in his favorite chair in the living room at Tanny Hill. Maybe he’s somewhere else entirely.

“I just don’t want to be cut out,” he says, finally. And for the first time, there’s something raw in his voice. Something unguarded. You close your eyes.

“You’re not cut out,” you say. “But you don’t get to control me. Not anymore.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, quietly, “I miss you.”

Your chest aches. Not because it fixes anything- but because it doesn’t.

“I know,” you say. And you mean it. “But missing me doesn’t give you access to me.”

When you hang up, your hand trembles slightly as you lower the phone. You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, breathing in Noel’s paint-scented air, one hand settling instinctively over your belly. When you step back into the living room, the song has changed. Laughter still fills the space. Owen looks up immediately, concern flickering across his face.

“You okay?” he asks again.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, sitting back down. “I am.”

And for the rest of the night, you let yourself be exactly where you are.

-

By the time the ice cream has melted into pale, soupy streaks at the bottom of their cartons and nearly everyone’s voices are shot, the night begins to wind down. The pizza boxes sits abandoned on the counter, only the unwanted slices left behind- pepperoni, cold cheese, crusts no one bothered with.

Shoes start appearing again by the door. Jack murmurs something vague about “meeting up with someone,” which you’re fairly certain is code for a late-night hookup. Sienna checks her phone and groans about an early morning shift- despite her parents’ money, hers are the kind that insist she clock in anyway. Myra and Mario stay back to help tidy for a bit, laughing softly as they gather empty cups, before heading out together.

Eventually it’s just you, the girls, and Owen.

Noel is crouched on the floor with a paper towel, scrubbing at a sticky patch of dried ice cream someone spilled hours ago. Allegra is stacking glasses at the sink. The apartment feels quieter now- comfortable in that end-of-the-night way.

You shove the second, unopened tub of vanilla into the freezer with more force than necessary.

“So,” Owen says casually, wiping down the kitchen island behind you, “everything okay?”

You shrug without turning around. “Um- yeah. It’s fine.” You can feel his eyes on you anyway. He must’ve noticed how you went quiet after disappearing earlier, how you’d laughed a little less, leaned back a little more into yourself.

He stops wiping and leans against the counter instead. “I know we don’t talk all the time,” he says carefully, “but you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

You close the freezer door and pause, your reflection staring back at you in the brushed steel. You exhale before turning around, crossing your arms loosely over your chest.

“I know. It’s just… a lot,” you admit. “And I don’t really want to dump it all on someone else’s plate.”

“My plate’s empty,” he says with a small shrug, hands slipping into his pockets.

You nod, appreciative, but the words still don’t come. Before the silence can stretch too long, Allegra appears beside you with a stack of glass plates balanced against her hip. “So are these,” she announces. “Can you guys load the dishwasher?”

Owen takes the plates from her immediately. “Yeah, I got it.”

You linger by the fridge while he loads them, listening to the clink of ceramic and the low hum of the dishwasher kicking on. When Allegra disappears back into the living room, Owen glances at you again- hesitant this time, like he’s deciding something.

“Hey,” he says, softer. “If you don’t feel like going back to wherever you’re staying tonight… or even if you just don’t want to be alone-” You look up.

“There’s a late place down the street,” he continues, scratching the back of his neck. “Coffee, dessert, open way too late for no reason. We could hang out. No pressure. Just… sit.”

It doesn’t feel like a date. It doesn’t feel like an obligation. It just feels like an offer. And for the first time all night, the tightness in your chest eases- just a little.

-

The coffee shop is nearly empty, the kind of late-night quiet that feels intentional rather than lonely. One barista hums softly behind the counter while wiping down the espresso machine, the lights dimmed just enough to make everything feel warmer than it actually is. You bite into the toasted cheese danish, the edges crisp, the center still soft, and chase it with a sip of tea. Across from you, Owen cradles a mug of black coffee between his hands.

Earlier, while you and Becca were getting ready to meet Beau back at the hotel, you’d told her you were going to hang out with Owen instead. Of course, she’d given the two of you that same suspicious look- eyes darting between you, lips pressed together like she had thoughts she was choosing not to voice. Still, you made sure both of you walked her back to the hotel before heading here.

Now, you sit tucked into the corner of the café, knees angled toward each other, the silence between you not uncomfortable- just full.

“So,” Owen says finally, breaking it gently as he takes a sip of coffee, “what happened earlier?”

You keep chewing, eyes on your plate. “What do you mean?”

He tilts his head slightly, lips curling in a way that says ‘you know exactly what I’m talking about’. “When you came back from Noel’s room. You got really quiet. What was that about?”

You sigh, your chewing slowing. “I was on the phone with my idiot ex-fiancé,” you admit. “That’s what that was.”

His eyebrows lift, not in surprise- more like confirmation. “What’d he do?” he asks, then quickly adds, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “I think the better question is what didn’t he do?”

Owen leans back slightly, listening.

“He’s broken my heart and ruined me a million times,” you continue, voice steady even if the words aren’t. “I don’t know why I thought the last time would be different.” You pause, thumb tracing the edge of your plate. “And now -with the baby- you’d think he’d try harder. Be better. But I guess that’s my fault for believing literally any man.” You glance up at him. “No offense.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and lifts his mug in mock surrender. “None taken. You’re not wrong.”

You smile faintly, then look back down.

“I’m really sorry,” he says after a moment, more softly now. “That you’ve had to endure… all of that.”

There’s no rush in his voice. No attempt to fix it. Just sympathy, plain and real, and it catches you off guard more than anything else tonight.

“It’s fine,” you say automatically, shrugging. “It’s not your fault.”

Owen doesn’t respond right away. He watches you over the rim of his mug, then sets it down.

“You know,” he says, careful, “it doesn’t have to be someone’s fault for it to suck.”

That makes you look up.

“And you don’t have to minimize it just because you’ve survived it,” he adds.

The words settle heavy -but not unkind- between you. You take another sip of tea, feeling something loosen in your chest.

“Thanks,” you murmur finally.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

The coffee shop hums quietly around you again, and for the first time in a while, you don’t feel like you’re carrying everything alone.

—

The OBX air feels exactly the same as it did when you left. It always does. Salty, heavy, familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest whether you want it to or not. Becca and Beau have barely pulled away when your phone buzzes as you’re unlocking the door. You glance down, pushing it open with your shoulder.

Owen: Make it home okay?

You’re smiling before you even realize it.

You: I did. Thank you again for last night. I really appreciate you.

A few seconds pass.

Owen: Glad to be of help.

You lock the door behind you and lean back against it, pressing the cool wood into your spine. You hold your phone to your chest, biting your lip, exhaling slowly. This isn’t a I think I found someone new feeling. It’s not butterflies or anticipation or longing. It’s quieter than that.

It’s realizing how long it’s been since a man sat across from you and simply listened. No defensiveness. No arguing. No trying to fix or control or dismiss what you were feeling. He hadn’t wanted anything from you. Hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t asked for more. He’d just been there.

And sometimes, that was everything.

You’re still leaning there, wrapped in the silence of your house, when the sound of a vehicle swerving outside cuts through the calm. Tires crunch against gravel.  Your brows knit together.

You straighten and pull the door open, peering out and your stomach drops.

A motorcycle is pulling into your driveway. The rider swings a leg off, removes his helmet, and you blink once. Twice. Like your eyes might be lying to you. They aren’t.

Rafe Cameron stands there, helmet tucked under his arm, jaw tight. Your heart sinks straight to your feet. Before you can stop yourself, you storm outside, your belly leading the way.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you demand. Your voice isn’t loud- but it’s sharp. Grounded.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Why the hell are you flying to New York when you’re this pregnant?”

The audacity nearly steals your breath.

“I’m four months pregnant,” you snap. “Not days away from giving birth. And it’s none of your business. You. Are. Not. My. Fiancé. Do you not understand that?”

He ignores you completely, brushing past and heading for the door.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” you call after him, following close. “And how did you even find my house?”

You slam the door shut behind you, more for the neighbors than for him. Your quiet street doesn’t need front-row seats to this.

Rafe paces your living room like a caged animal, hands raking through his hair, anger vibrating off him even as he tries -badly- to rein it in.

“What has gotten into you, Rafe?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper now.

He whirls around. “What’s gotten into me? What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m still the same me,” you say. “You’re the one who changed. This isn’t the Rafe I met at the beginning of last summer.”

Your eyes burn. Everything feels like it shifted overnight- good to bad, bad to unbearable. You see the tears in his eyes too, but his pride keeps them caged. Then, without warning, he strides toward you and snatches your phone from your hand.

“Rafe- what are you-” you reach for it, panic spiking, but he twists away, already unlocking it.

“Who the fuck is Owen?” he hisses, scrolling.

“He’s my friend,” you cry. “And you’ve met him. Rafe, give me my phone back.”

You instinctively cradle your belly as you sob, fear crawling up your spine- not for yourself, but for what he might do to the baby trying to keep you from your own phone.

“What’s ‘thanks for last night’?” he spits. “What did you do while carrying my child?” He throws your phone down the hallway. It skids across the floor and cracks loudly against the wall. You flinch.

“Nothing!” you sob. “We sat in a coffee shop. I talked. He listened. Something I begged you for- something you never gave me.”

Your chest heaves as the words tumble out. Who is this man? Where is the person you loved?

Rafe exhales shakily, hands trembling as he drags them over his buzzed hair. His face crumples.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

He drops into a squat, head bowed, shoulders shaking as he breaks. Fully breaks. And that terrifies you. This is the Rafe who scares you. The Rafe who hurt Sarah. The Rafe everyone warned you about. You back away slowly until your spine hits the door. You slide down, shielding your belly as tears fall freely. The two of you cry in silence, the room heavy with it.

“I love you,” he sobs. “And I can’t stand this. Being away from you.” His breath stutters. “I hurt her.”

Your crying stills. “Hurt who, Rafe?” you whisper.

“Sarah,” he chokes. “I hurt Sarah. I messed up. I didn’t want you to see me the way everyone else does- as this monster.” He looks up, eyes red. “But now that’s all you see, isn’t it?”

Your heart fractures watching him like this. You hate how much it still hurts. “I don’t see you as a monster,” you say softly, wiping your face. “I just wanted honesty. That’s all I ever wanted from you.”

The words hang between you- simple, devastating, and far too late.

“I’m giving it to you now,” he cries. “Everything. I just- I want you back. I want us to be a family.”

Your chest tightens. “You broke up with me, Rafe,” you say, your voice trembling despite yourself. “You hurt me a thousand times and you think you can just… show up and I’ll take you back?” A shaky breath slips past your lips. “All you had to do the first time was be honest. People mess up. Emotions get out of control. None of what you did was okay- but all you had to say was that you hurt her, that you were wrong, that you didn’t mean it.”

He nods frantically, wiping at his face. “I fucked up. I know I did. I was stupid. I ruined our future with my own hands.” His voice cracks. “I’m owning that. I swear I am. Just… please.”

He stands and crosses the room in two quick strides, then drops to his knees in front of you again. His hands find yours, warm and familiar, and your breath catches. It hurts- how immediate it is. How your heart swells the second his skin touches yours. Four months without him. Four months without this. You hate how deeply your body remembers him, how much you’ve missed something you swore you were learning to live without.

“Please, y/n,” he whispers. Begging.

Your vision blurs. God, you want to say yes. You want to fold, to pull him into you, to believe him, to go back to the version of your life where loving him didn’t feel like walking on broken glass. But you can’t.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, pulling your hand free even though it feels like tearing something out of your chest. “I forgive you- but I can’t do this again. I can’t put myself through it. I can’t put the baby through it.” Your voice breaks completely. “I just can’t.”

His shoulders sag. His head drops forward, and a single tear slides down the bridge of his nose before dripping onto the floor. He sniffs once, sharply, like he’s trying to pull himself back together and failing.

The room fills with the sound of both of you breathing through heartbreak- his too late, and yours finally choosing to survive. The house settles back into silence.

The tears are gone, wiped away with the backs of your hands and shallow breaths, but the hurt lingers- heavy and unresolved, sitting in your chest like something you don’t know where to put yet. Rafe has shifted from kneeling to sitting across from you on the floor, his back slumped over. His fingers trace idle patterns along the wood, like he needs to keep moving or he’ll unravel all over again.

You’re the one who breaks the quiet.

“How did you know I was in New York?” you ask softly.

“You told me” he chuckles, eyes still on the floor.

“No- before i told you. You knew i wasn’t in the obx.” 

He lets out a small, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Beau,” he says. “We talked a while back. He mentioned going to New York with his sister to meet some investment guy.” He shrugs. “You said you were out of town, so I took a wild guess.”

You nod, staring at a spot on the floor between you. The silence stretches again, thick but not hostile. Not anymore. You don’t really know how to fill it- and truthfully, you don’t want him to leave. The realization surprises you with how immediate it is.

Rafe clears his throat and pushes himself to his feet. “I should probably go,” he says, forcing a weak half-smile. “Sorry I showed up like a total psychopath.”

You shake your head quickly. Despite the chaos, despite the fear and the shouting, something about this -all of it- feels necessary. “No, it’s…” You trail off, unsure how to finish. It wasn’t okay. But it was honest. And maybe that’s what you both needed.

He steps closer and holds out his hands, wordlessly offering to help you up. You take them, his grip steady as he pulls you to your feet. For a moment, neither of you moves. Time freezes. You stand there, close enough to feel his warmth, looking at each other like you’re both waiting for the same invisible cue- what now?

“I know you said no,” he says quietly. “And I’ll respect that.” His voice softens. “But… can we talk? Maybe be friends?” His eyes search yours. “Not just for the baby. For us.”

You’re nodding before you fully realize it. “Yeah,” you say, surprised by how easily the word comes out. “Yeah, we can.”

Relief flickers across his face. He exhales, looking down- and that’s when you notice your hands. Still tangled together, holding too tight, like neither of you was ready to be the one to let go first. You take a deep breath and gently pull away. He follows your lead, fingers lingering just a second too long before falling back to his sides.

You walk to the door and open it. The sky has darkened, clouds rolling in low and heavy, the air thick with the promise of a storm. You can smell it -the familiar OBX rain that always comes fast and leaves everything different in its wake. It’s strange how only minutes ago you were yelling, crying, breaking- and now the world feels still. You step aside to let him pass.

He walks onto the porch, pauses, and turns back to look at you one last time. There’s so much left unsaid, but neither of you tries to say it. He puts his helmet on, mounts the bike, and rides off down the street, the sound fading into the distance.

You close the door behind him.

The house is quiet again- but this time, it doesn’t feel quite as empty.

----------

He doesn’t answer. Just nods without lifting his head, shoulders rising and falling with a tight, shallow breath.

Assuming the silence is final, you turn to walk away- But his hand catches yours. Gently. Almost desperately. You freeze. Turn back.

His head finally lifts, though his eyes stay closed like he’s scared of what looking at you will do to him. His fingers lace with yours, and he brings the back of your hand to his lips- except he doesn’t kiss it. He just holds it there, breath shaky, then drags your hand up until it rests against his forehead, like he’s asking for something without knowing how.

“I love you so much,” he whispers, voice breaking, speaking to your skin more than to you.

Your heart aches. But so does your anger. If you love me, tell me the truth. End all of our suffering. You don’t say it. You don’t need to. He already knows.

You give your hand a gentle tug- soft, hesitant, because you don’t actually want it back. Not really. You could stay here forever, suspended in the fragile warmth of him needing you.

But he lets go. And that hurts too.

You exhale shakily and walk toward the cabinet to put away the kit. The glass doors reflect your silhouette- small, tired, trying to look whole. You crouch, sliding the box into the back behind rows of fine china and Cameron family photos, your fingers lingering because you know the moment you stand, the moment you turn around, something irreversible is coming.

“Y/n.” His voice is softer now. Thinner.

“Yes, Rafe?” You don’t snap. You don’t turn. You just keep organizing the invisible nothing in front of you. A beat. Then-

“I think we should end things.” Your heart hits the floor. Your stomach twists. Your entire world… pauses. Not crashing. Not exploding. Just freezing- like someone unplugged reality for a second and forgot to turn it back on. You steady yourself, inhale, force your spine straight. Then you close the cabinet gently and turn to him.

“You want to end things?” you ask, making your voice sound casual. Too casual. Like you’re asking if he wants takeout.

He doesn’t look at you. He’s staring at the carpet like it has answers hidden in the pattern. His hand has gone white around the empty glass. He nods.

“This is your final decision,” you tell him, your voice strangely steady despite everything inside you collapsing. “Sober or not. I’m only asking once. Are you sure?”

Another nod.

He lifts his head -finally- and meets your eyes for the first time in what feels like hours.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “I’m sure.”

His voice cracks. He quickly stands, turning away like distance will hide the sound.

You nod to yourself. So this is it. The end of the relationship you reshaped your entire world for.

“Well,” you say quietly, slipping the engagement ring from your finger, feeling its absence immediately. “You should probably take this back.”

You walk toward him. He turns, brows furrowed, confusion and pain mixing across his face. His gaze drops to the ring between your fingers. His hand closes over yours, warm and trembling, as he takes it back.

There’s a moment- one breath where you look at each other and neither of you speaks because you don’t have to.

I love you. But this is the end. For good.

He pockets the ring like it weighs a thousand pounds.

“I’m gonna stay somewhere else for the night,” you say.

“You don’t-”

“I know.” You swallow. “But I don’t want to be here.”

He nods. His face tightens, pain etched into every line. He understands. Or at least he tries to.

“I’ll see you later,” he murmurs, reaching for more whiskey because he doesn’t know what else to reach for now that he’s lost you.

If you weren’t pregnant, you’d be drinking too. And for the first time in a long time, you walk away from him without looking back.

The February air is crisp when you step outside- so cold it bites at your cheeks, sharp enough to make you blink. Maybe the cold is why you’re not crying. Maybe it froze something in you on the way out the door. Or maybe it’s the shock. Maybe you’re still suspended in that strange space between reality and disbelief, where the breakup hasn’t fully hit yet.

You should’ve packed a bag. You know that. Some clothes, a charger, something. But the idea of being in that house for even another minute made your chest hurt. You had to get out before the walls felt like they were closing in on you.

To your surprise, you don’t cry. Not when you get into the car and close the door a little too gently. Not when you pull one of Rafe’s old hoodies over your shoulders like muscle memory. Not when you’re reversing down the driveway for what might be the last time. Not when the house disappears in the rearview.

You don’t cry when you drive to the marsh, even though the drive feels like a funeral procession you’re leading yourself through. You don’t cry when you park and step out into the night. You don’t cry when you sit down in your usual spot by the water- knees pulled up, hands shoved deep into the hoodie pocket, the night wind brushing your hair back. You just sit. For minutes. Maybe hours. Time doesn’t feel real here. The waves crash against the shore like they have no idea your world fell apart tonight. You stare at them, trying to understand why you’re so…dry. So numb. So calm. Is it shock? Are you still processing? Probably. It all happened too fast. One moment you were bandaging his hand. The next moment you were handing him back your ring.

And now you’re…here. Parked in front of 

11:58 p.m. It's almost midnight. You sigh before pressing call on Becca’s name. The phone rings through the speakers, loud in the emptiness of the car. It picks up with a tired, irritated groan.

“There better be a good reason you’re calling me at midnight.”

“It’s not midnight. It’s eleven fifty-eight.” You shoot back automatically, sarcasm covering up whatever’s hollowing out your chest.

“What the fuck do you want?” she whines.

“I’m at your house. I need to stay over.”

The humor drops instantly. Silence replaces it- heavy, thick, immediate.

“…Okay,” she says quietly. “Let me put some clothes on. I’ll open the door in, like, one minute.”

You hang up with a nod she can’t see. You get out of the car, lock it, and walk toward her front door, your head bowed like you’re afraid the night sky is judging you. The porch light glows warm against the cold, and when the door swings open, Becca is standing there in a satin slip dress and messy black curls, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

She doesn’t wait. She grabs your arm and pulls you inside, shutting and locking the door behind you.

“Come in- come in.” Her hands move up and down your arms, trying to warm you. “What’s going on? Did Rafe do something?” Her brows knit together, her eyes scanning your face for clues. You open your mouth, willing words to come out—anything, something—but your throat locks. Nothing makes it past your lips.

“Y/n,” she says again, voice lower now, serious. “Did he do something?”

Did he do something? Did you? The truth is you both did. You both said things that detonated everything, and there’s no rewinding from it.

“We broke up.” The words come out small. Exhausted. Final. “We’re done.”

Her face softens immediately—shoulders dropping, eyes warming, expression melting in that way only your best friend’s can. She doesn’t speak.

She just pulls you into a hug. A tight, steady, grounding hug.

One you didn’t even realize you were desperate for until you sink into it and your breath finally, finally stutters. And for the first time all night- you feel the burn of tears behind your eyes.

—

When you open your eyes, there’s a split second -a single, weightless moment- where your mind is blank. No thoughts. No ache. No memories. Just sunlight warming your cheek and the thin sound of birds chirping through Becca’s cracked window. For that split second, you feel free. Untethered. Light.

And then the split second ends.

Reality returns all at once- sharp, heavy, merciless. The breakup. His voice. Your ring in his pocket. The way your entire world shifted in the span of a few sentences. The numbness you had last night is gone. This morning the pain is real. Thick. Crushing. Settled deep in your chest like a weight someone placed there while you slept. You sit up slowly, the sheets rustling around you. Becca is still asleep beside you, her dark brown curls a soft halo against the stark white pillow. It should be comforting. It almost is.

Until your stomach twists.

That familiar morning-sickness flip- but harsher, sharper, knotted with heartbreak. Your eyes blur with tears as you stumble out of bed, one hand braced on the wall, the other covering your mouth. You barely make it to her bathroom before collapsing to your knees, heaving into the toilet.

It’s not just nausea. It’s everything. The sobs come with the vomit, ripping through you in a way they didn’t last night. Last night you were holding yourself together with numbness and shock. This morning your body refuses to keep it in. You cry into the porcelain. Cry until your ribs hurt.

Cry like you’re grieving something you never wanted to lose.

Becca appears only seconds later. Sleep-soft, barefoot, face still puffy from bed- but instantly sober at the sight of you breaking apart.

“Oh, honey…” she murmurs as she drops to her knees beside you.

She gathers your hair in one hand, pulling it away from your face, rubbing circles on your back with the other. She doesn’t say much. She doesn’t need to. Her silence is its own kind of comfort, the steady kind you can lean into without feeling judged. At some point she reaches up onto the sink and snags a claw clip, sweeping your hair back and clipping it gently. Then she stands -quiet footsteps padding across the tile- and you hear the fridge door open in the other room.

You’re still breathing heavily when she returns, a cold bottle of water in hand. She kneels again, twists the cap open, and passes it to you without a word. You swish the water in your mouth, spit into the sink, then take a small sip that barely stays down. Your forehead rests against the cool porcelain of the toilet for a moment before you gather yourself enough to close the lid and flush. The sound is too loud. Everything is too loud.

Becca watches you, worry lining every inch of her face. “I’m so sorry, Y/n,” she whispers, voice thick with morning rasp and something like heartbreak- for you. You let out a long, heavy sigh. A sound full of everything you can’t yet say.

Because right now, breathing feels like all you can manage.

Your mind is already sprinting ahead of the morning, faster than your body can keep up. What the day is supposed to look like. What it should look like. And then the reality of it hits you all over again- the avalanche of everything you have to undo.Cancel everything. Refunds. Calls. Explanations. Letting Eve go without a real reason, even though she’s technically done absolutely nothing wrong. Telling your parents.

Telling everyone you’re close to that you’re no longer getting married. You still care about Rafe in this strange, painful way that refuses to die, even after everything. So you already know you’re not going to say a word about his business or anything he’s done to Sarah and the Pogues. That’s not your story to tell. You’ve already made peace with the fact that you’ll just have to say, “Things didn’t work out.” A simple sentence that isn’t nearly big enough to carry the weight of your devastation. Finally, you turn to Becca, voice cracking before the tears even fall.

“I can’t do it. Any of it. Canceling everything. Having to tell people we’re not getting married anymore.” Your words crumble at the end, and so do you.

Becca pulls you into her arms without hesitation, squeezing tight like she’s trying to hold your pieces together. You cling to her, sobbing into her shoulder- raw, spent, trembling. She strokes your back and rocks you softly, whispering nothing, because nothing needs to be said. Then a loud pounding rattles from the front door, sharp enough to make you both jump. You and Becca pull apart, her brows knitting with confusion while you try to scrub your face with the sleeve of your shirt- an attempt at appearing human again, even though you still feel hollow.

“I’ll be back,” she says firmly, giving you that look- the one that promises she’s coming back for you, no matter what’s waiting on the other side of that door.

You sink back onto her bed, plugging your phone into her charger, watching the battery icon blink at one percent. You’re still like that, staring blankly at the screen, when you hear the door open.

Becca’s surprised voice floats down the hallway.

“Mrs. Y/L/N—?”

“Where’s Y/N?” your mother cuts in, her tone slicing through the quiet house. Not rude… but not gentle either. Sharp. Demanding. Like she bulldozed her way here on pure worry.

Normally, you’d storm out there. You’d tell her she can’t just show up, that you’re grown, that she doesn’t need to watch you like a child. But you don’t have the energy- not emotionally, not mentally, not in any capacity. So you stay where you are. Face swollen. Body drained. Mind slipping into that familiar emptiness depression likes to crawl out of.

You hear Becca hush her. A low rumble of tense whispers follows. You don’t move. Eventually, Becca’s bedroom door creaks open. Your mom steps in, her face softening instantly when she sees you- puffy-eyed, curled in on yourself. Becca hovers behind her, clearly wanting to protect you but not wanting to overstep.

“Y/N… what’s going on?” your mother asks, her voice completely different than a moment ago. Softer. Almost fragile. The tone she used when you were little and too hurt to speak. You’ve never been especially close with your parents. You’ve never been the run-to-them-for-comfort type. But right now? Right now you feel like the four-year-old version of yourself who fell off the playground slide -stunned, hurting, overwhelmed- and just wants her mom.

So you sit up.

Your voice breaks on a tiny, trembling, “Mom…” And then you reach for her.

She doesn’t hesitate. She kneels beside the bed and wraps you in a hug- tight, warm, quiet. The kind of hug that doesn’t need words, because the gesture itself says, I’m here. I’ve got you. That’s all it takes for you to break again. You bury your face against her shoulder and cry, letting her hold you like you’re not too old, not too independent, not too stubborn. Just her child. Hurting. And for the first time since last night, you don’t feel entirely alone.

-

The three of you sit in Becca’s living room, a quiet little island floating in the middle of your chaos. A blanket is draped around your shoulders -Becca’s doing- soft and heavy like a weighted attempt at comfort. A warm mug of green tea sits between your palms, the steam rising in gentle curls you’re too drained to appreciate. No one speaks. Becca sits pressed lightly to your right. Your mother sits close on your left. Their silence isn’t awkward. It’s protective.

It tells you they understand you’re hanging by a thread.

You’d told your mom almost everything. Not the dark parts- nothing about Rafe’s possible violent past, nothing about the ultimatum you gave, nothing that would paint him as anything other than complicated. But everything else. Everything you had the energy to repeat. You don’t even know how your voice held up long enough to get the story out.

You can’t remember the last time you cried like this. Especially not over a man. You should be empty by now, scraped dry. But the tears keep coming in waves, like your body is trying to purge heartbreak out through your pores.

“Y/N, you need to eat,” your mom murmurs, barely above a whisper. “Even if not for yourself… for the baby.”

You set the tea down on the coaster with trembling hands. A plate sits on the coffee table in front of you- two pieces of buttered toast and scrambled eggs, still warm. Becca made it ten minutes ago, moving around the kitchen like she was afraid if she stopped, she’d cry too.

You lift the plate into your lap. Pick up a piece of toast. And then- your body just… quits. Your fingers slacken, the toast falls back to the plate with a soft thud.

“I can’t,” you choke out, the sob ripping free before you can stop it. It isn’t refusal. It isn’t stubbornness. You physically cannot force food down right now, even if you want to. Even if it’s for the tiny life depending on you. Your stomach is a tight, twisted knot of grief and exhaustion and morning sickness.

The plate slips from your knees- Becca or your mom catches it before it crashes to the floor. You bury your face in your hands as another wave of sobs shakes you. Every inhale is wet and sharp. Every exhale feels like it hurts.

“It’s okay,” Becca whispers, sliding in closer. “We’re here. We’re not going anywhere, okay?”

Your mom rubs slow, soothing circles along your back- the same way she did when you were little and sick with the flu. It almost undoes you all over again.

“I don’t want you to worry about anything wedding-related,” your mom says softly. “We’re going to take care of everything. All of it. I’ll talk to Eve, I’ll give her the news, and I’ll pay her out of pocket. She was my idea, anyway.” Her voice drops even softer. “You just need to rest. Take care of yourself and the baby.”

Becca nods in agreement, her hand still steady against your spine. You’re honestly shocked she hasn’t said anything about embarrassment or the family name- your cancelled wedding, your pregnancy, all of it. But that was always your father’s territory. Your mom knows when her sharpness would only make things worse.

You nod, even though your head throbs with the ache of what feels like the thousandth cry of the day.

“We’ll get you your own space,” your mom adds gently. “Somewhere comfortable. Somewhere with plenty of room for you and baby Y/L/N.”

Your heart cracks at that- baby Y/L/N.

You don’t even know if the baby will have his last name. You don’t know anything anymore.

“And we’ll help you move,” Becca adds quickly. “You won’t have to see his face through the whole pregnancy if you don’t want to.” She means well. She really does.

But even hearing him referenced -even without his name- makes your throat tighten again. It’s a strange, cruel thing: wanting distance and wanting him at the same time. Wanting peace and wanting answers. Wanting to protect your baby from him and wanting him to be the father you once believed he could be. You cling to the blanket, to the warmth of the tea mug, to the quiet support on either side of you. You are held. You are supported. But right now? You are still so heartbreakingly, unbearably hurt.

-

The days after the breakup move slowly, like wading through thick water. You exist more than you live. You sleep in Becca’s guest room with the curtains drawn, waking only when your stomach forces you upright or when Becca gently shakes your shoulder so you can sip water. You barely speak. You barely eat. The world shrinks down to nausea, headaches, and the hollow ache behind your ribs where everything used to feel bright.

Your mom stops asking questions after the second day. She just… stays. She’s there when you retch into the sink at 3 p.m. She’s there when you stare blankly at the wall, breathing like you’re trying to stay afloat. She’s there when you finally whisper, “I don’t think he loves me,” and she pulls you into her arms like she wishes she could carry the pain for you.

You and Rafe don’t talk- not at first. But after a week, he finally breaks the silence.

Rafe: “Is the baby okay?”

You read it three times, your throat tightening. Your response is short, steady, emotionless:

You: “Doctor said symptoms are normal. I’m fine.”

He never pushes. You never open the door he tries to gently knock on. The texts show up every few days, spaced out and careful:

Rafe: “Did you get the vitamins?”

Rafe: “Let me know if you need the insurance info.”

You: “Already handled.”

You: “Yes.”

Nothing more. Never anything more.

He thinks you’re okay because you sound okay.He doesn’t know you cry in the shower most days because it’s the only place no one can hear you.

But slowly -so slowly you don’t notice it at first- things begin to change.

Your mom moves you back into your childhood home temporarily, clearing out the guest room with more determination than sentiment. She buys you oversized loungewear and prenatal tea. She keeps the fridge stocked with the only two things you can stomach: lemon popsicles and apple slices. She helps you sit through the wedding cancellation calls, always stepping in before your voice can break. She shields you from the embarrassment you feared she’d weaponize. She surprises you with how gentle she is.

How patient. How unlike the woman you grew up thinking she was.

One night, after a particularly rough wave of nausea, she’s sitting with you on the bathroom floor, her back against the tub, your head on her shoulder. You whisper, “I’m sorry we haven’t been close.”

She runs her hand over your hair like she used to when you were little. “We’re fixing it now,” she murmurs. “That’s what matters.”

And she’s right- you are. Every day, a little more.

You start running errands with her.. You let her help you choose baby books. You begin eating real meals again, even if it’s only half a bowl at a time. You talk- not about Rafe, not about the wedding- just… talk. There are moments, rare but real, where you laugh.

Rafe texts again, a short one:

Rafe: “How’s the baby?”

You look at the message for a long moment before answering honestly,

You: “Good. Strong heartbeat today.”

You leave out the part where you cried in the car afterward because you wished he had been there to hear it too. Your mother watches you from the doorway, not asking, not judging. Just… present. And for the first time since everything fell apart, the quiet doesn’t feel suffocating.

It feels like space. Like air. Like the beginning of something steadier. Something survivable.

-

You’re sitting near the back of the yoga studio, the warm morning sunlight spilling through the tall windows and catching the glossy wood panels across the floor. Pastel yoga mats are stretched out in uneven rows like oversized pieces of laffy taffy, soft and cheerful in a way your mood isn’t. You’ve taken this exact class every summer since you were fifteen- same hour, same smell of eucalyptus, same type of instructor with the calm, airy voice.

Except this morning, it isn’t your class. It’s a prenatal yoga class.

Becca sits cross-legged beside you, unpregnant and unbothered, sipping from a water bottle she definitely didn’t bring. How she even got into the class, you’re not sure -you assume charm, bribery, or both- but you’re too tired to question it. You just let her be.

Everyone begins practicing equal breathing. Everyone except Becca, who leans in every few seconds to whisper about some new salad bar she found just outside Kildare, as if this is brunch gossip hour and not a room full of very pregnant strangers trying to find their centers. Your focus isn’t on her, though. It’s on the subtle glint of diamonds flashing around the room whenever the women lift their hands to their knees. Thin gold bands, oval stones, cushion cuts -little symbols of stability and promises that didn’t shatter. Your throat tightens before you can stop it.

It should’ve been you. You should’ve had that too.

You force your eyes back to the instructor as she demonstrates a slow, deep inhale. You follow the count, holding the breath in your chest like you’re afraid it’ll crumble if you let it go. The breakup still stings in ways you weren’t prepared for. Some mornings it’s a dull ache. Other days it sits heavier, like someone pressing a thumb into a bruise you keep pretending isn’t there.

And even now, at the end of May, when everyone keeps telling you you’re “doing so well,” you still find yourself thinking about him.

Dreaming about him. Waking up missing things you don’t even want anymore. You hate it. You hate that he still has that kind of power over your subconscious. But you remind yourself -quietly, patiently- that healing isn’t linear. It takes time. More time than you ever wanted to give it.

So you breathe in. You breathe out. And you let yourself have that time.

The move-in process is slightly easier than you expected -messy, overwhelming, but not the disaster you’d mentally prepared for. Your parents paid for everything, of course. You still had money saved from working with Valentina & Co. -one of the few perks of being the daughter of the current owner- but your mom wouldn’t hear a word about you covering renovation costs. 

“Stress-free pregnancy,” she’d said, waving her hand like that meant anything in the real world.

You stand in your living room wearing a medical mask, the faint scent of primer and tile adhesive clinging stubbornly to the air. Tile installers kneel in your kitchen, fitting emerald-green tiles to the wall in a neat, shimmering pattern. Across the room, painters move in slow, practiced strokes, transforming blank walls into something warm and livable.

You’d wanted to get a head start the second you got the keys. When the baby came, you didn’t want strangers walking through the space with heavy equipment and dust-covered boots. So you hired everyone at once. Floors, paint, tile, bathroom. Controlled chaos.

The nursery had been finished just yesterday. Soft sage walls. A sunlit corner where the crib would go. In your primary bathroom, the tub-shower combo was already torn out -soon to be replaced with a separate rainfall shower and a clawfoot tub you’d impulsively bought during a late-night bout of pregnancy insomnia. There’s still so much to do. But if you gave birth right this second -if your water broke right here in the middle of the taped-off floor- you’d be fine living with the unfinished pieces for a while. The essentials were done. The rest would wait.

Boxes clutter every inch of the house. Movers had cleared out your things from Tannyhill for you, which had been the right choice- Becca and your mom had offered months ago, but you knew better. If Becca went to the house, it would either end in a screaming match, a fistfight, or Rafe mysteriously disappearing into the marsh.

You exhale slowly, rubbing your thumb across your pants as you glance down at your phone.

Rafe’s contact sits at the top of your screen. You hover your thumb over it, feeling that familiar, maddening pull. You hadn’t seen him since that day- since everything fell apart. He’d been consistent about checking in just enough to be responsible, always about the baby, never about anything else. Never about you.

You tell yourself you want to reach a point where the two of you can talk like normal human beings- about the weather, about the traffic on the mainland bridge, something harmless. Something easy.

But you’re not there yet. You don’t think he is either.

You chew on your bottom lip, debating calling him. What would you even say? That you were redoing the kitchen? That you were drowning in cardboard boxes? That some nights you still cried without knowing exactly why?

And the real fear sits heavy in your chest: You don’t even know if he wants to be bothered with you, outside of doctor updates and appointment reminders.

Your thumb hovers a moment longer… then drops to your side as the sound of a drill whirs in the kitchen, grounding you back into your half-finished home.

You sigh and toss your phone onto the brand-new couch- a velvety mustard-yellow piece you splurged on, warm and bold against the cool emerald kitchen tiles. It looks perfect in the space, exactly how you imagined it. But the emptiness around it steals away some of the joy. Your hand drifts down to your belly. Nearly five months now. Round, unmistakably pregnant, but not huge. Just enough that strangers might hesitate before asking, but your clothes no longer hide anything. It still doesn’t feel real- not fully. Maybe it won’t until you’re in the delivery room, the sterile lights bright overhead, your mom squeezing one hand and Becca clutching the other.           

Maybe your dad pacing outside the door. No Rafe. The thought stings every time, whether you want it to or not.

As the workers wrap up the living room, you thank them, slipping tips into their hands before walking them to the door. The kitchen crew finishes a few minutes later, and you do the same- polite, warm, grateful. And then, suddenly, the house falls silent behind you. A silence so thick it presses in.

It’s moments like this -when the house is too still, too big, too new- that you feel it the most. The missing. The ache. The absence of the person who should be here, even if things between you are complicated and messy and painful. The person you once thought would be standing beside you through all of this.

You drag yourself upstairs, exhaustion sinking into your bones. As you pass the nursery, you stop. You don’t mean to- you just do. Your arms fold slowly over your belly, instinctively protective, and you lean against the doorframe. You flick on the light.

Soft pastel walls meet you, gentle and calming. The dainty crib sits assembled, its pale wooden bars catching the glow. The changing table is stocked with tiny folded onesies and neatly arranged wipes. And in the corner, the rocking chair -your favorite part- waits with a quilted blanket draped over the back like someone has already been using it.

It’s perfect. Beautiful. A dream made real.

And the desire hits you sharply, painfully- you wish he were here to see it. You wish the two of you were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, imagining morning feedings and late-night rocking and tiny fingers wrapped around yours. You wish, even for a moment, that you weren’t doing all of this alone.

There’s nothing wrong with being a single mother- plenty of women do it, and do it fiercely. You just never imagined you’d be one. And you’re not sure yet if you’re strong enough for the version of motherhood that doesn’t come with a partner’s steady presence at your side.

You turn the light off gently, like lowering your voice in a room where someone is sleeping, and carry yourself down the hall to your bedroom- if you can even call it that yet. It’s bare. A bed, a dresser, a TV mounted to the wall. Technically enough to live with, but nowhere near enough to feel like home. The space feels hollow, as though you’ve moved into the shell of your life without fully stepping into it.

You hit the remote, flipping on SpongeBob -more for company than entertainment- and crawl under the cold sheets. The cartoon voices fill the room, bouncing off the blank walls, making the emptiness feel a little less sharp.

You close your eyes and try not to think about how different this night might have been if things hadn’t fallen apart.

-

When you wake up, you know instantly it’s one of those mornings. The kind where your chest aches- not physically, but from something deeper, heavier. You blink up at the ceiling, willing yourself to breathe past the tightness. Today, you find out your baby’s gender. Tears sting your eyes before you even sit up. It’s not that you regret the ultimatum you gave Rafe. You were right to protect yourself -and the baby- from the cyclone of mistakes he refused to take responsibility for. But you wish… God, you wish you had someone there with you today. A partner. Him. Even though Becca will be there and maybe your mom too, it’s different. It’s not the same as having the father of your child’s hand to hold.

You sip the glass of water on your nightstand, swallowing past nausea and emotion, before forcing yourself out of bed. You wash up, fix your hair, and move through your morning routine on autopilot. Breakfast according to your nutritionist’s chart. A few minutes scrolling through social media. Then getting dressed for another day that is supposed to be normal and isn’t.

The front door shuts downstairs.

You freeze, then hurry down as fast as your steps and belly allow.

“Y/n! You ready?” Becca calls before you even reach the kitchen.

You round the corner to see her leaning over your kitchen island, texting rapidly. Her purse and keys are tossed carelessly beside her.

“Yeah, let me grab my shoes and purse,” you sigh, already winded. You rest a hand on your belly and the other on the counter. “And I have to pee.”

“You want me to do that for you?” she asks, sliding her phone aside.

“Yeah—here.” You pretend to hand her your bladder.

She gives you the most exhausted deadpan.

You snort. “Okay, okay. Yes. Please.”

You waddle to the half bathroom as she grabs your shoes and digs your lip balm out of your purse like she’s your personal assistant.

—

When you pull into the parking lot of the doctor’s office, your nerves begin to thrum. Hard. You stare out the windshield for a second longer than you need to. Are you really ready to find out your baby’s gender… alone? Not alone-alone -Becca is right next to you, chewing gum too loudly and already scrolling Yelp for post-appointment food- but alone in the way that matters. Alone in the way you never expected to be.You take a slow breath and get out.

Inside, the nurse guides you to the exam room. You climb onto the table, the crinkly paper beneath you loud in the quiet. Becca sits close, hands holding yours, fingers sliding into your hand without a word. You rub your belly, your thumb tracing absent circles. Your heart is pounding now. There’s a soft knock before Doctor Bryant enters, her warm smile instantly easing the room.

“Miss Y/n Y/l/n! Good to see you today.”

“It’s good to see you too,” you whisper- the kind of soft that comes right before someone breaks.

She pulls up her rolling stool, listens to your heartbeat, asks the routine questions. You try to answer evenly.

“I’m feeling okay. I’m ready to see what I’m having. And the baby’s good, I think. Lots of kicking and-”

The door opens. Abruptly. “Sorry I’m late. Work-”

You turn instinctively toward the voice- and freeze. Standing in the doorway -tall, clean-shaven, composed like he didn’t just detonate the moment he stepped inside- is Rafe. Rafe, who you haven’t seen in four months. Not since the breakup. Not since the last time your heart felt whole. He closes the door softly, like he’s trying not to disturb anything. As if he isn’t the disturbance.

Your breath catches. Becca stiffens beside you. Your hands immediately clasp over your belly.

“Mr. Cameron!” Doctor Bryant beams, oblivious to the emotional grenade that has just landed. “You’re right on time. We were just about to get started.”

Rafe gives a tiny nod, eyes flicking to you -just once- before he pulls the spare chair closer and sits down. As if he belongs here. As if nothing happened. As if the last four months of silence never existed. Your pulse roars in your ears. And the room suddenly feels too small for the both of you.

Becca shifts toward the end of the exam bed on your left as Doctor Bryant steps out to grab the ultrasound gel. The moment the door clicks shut, the room falls into a thick, uneasy quiet.

You lift your tank top to just beneath your ribs, exposing your round, warm belly to the cool air. Out of the corner of your eye, you can feel Rafe staring- not at you, but at the curve of your stomach. At the physical proof of what the two of you made together. His gaze is glued there, unmoving, like he hasn’t seen it in person and can’t quite breathe around the reality of it.

You glance at Becca. She stands stiffly near your feet, arms crossed so tightly it’s a wonder they haven’t snapped. Her jaw is clenched, eyes narrowed. Uncomfortable. Annoyed. Ready to go to war if you give her even half a reason. You give her a tiny look- don’t. She rolls her eyes but stays quiet. You turn your head slightly toward Rafe.

“Rafe… what are you doing here?” Your voice is soft, careful, like you’re afraid the wrong tone will shatter something delicate.

He doesn’t look up. His eyes stay on your belly like he’s terrified to blink.

“What do you mean?” he murmurs. “I’m here to see the gender of my child.” His tone is hushed, not defensive- more like he’s trying to avoid an argument that already lives beneath both your skins.

“I’m not saying you can’t be here.” You swallow, the tightness in your throat making your words waver. “But you haven’t been to any appointments since we… broke up. It just… would’ve been nice to know you were coming today.”

Your voice dips so low only he and Becca can hear it. Emotion pricks your eyes, threatening tears you absolutely don’t want to shed in front of him. He finally tears his gaze from your stomach and meets your eyes for the briefest second.

“Eve knew,” he says simply, like that settles everything. Of course. Still hiding behind her. Still using her as a buffer. Four months and nothing has changed.

“I’m sure she has,” you reply, your tone clipped but controlled. Your composure is hanging by a thread, but you refuse to let him see you unravel. You refuse to give him that.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. You wonder if he still talks to Eve regularly. If she’s still orbiting his life in ways you no longer do. Your stomach twists- not from pregnancy, but from something crueler.

“Let’s not do this now,” Becca cuts in sharply, her voice coated with warning- almost all of it aimed at Rafe.

Just then, a soft knock breaks through the tension. Doctor Bryant reenters, cheerful and entirely unaware of the storm swirling in the room. She holds the bottle of gel in one hand, her warm smile instantly shifting the atmosphere.

“Alright! Who’s ready to meet their little one today?” she says brightly.

No one answers. But all three of you breathe. Doctor Bryant seems to catch onto the tension immediately. She gives a tight-lipped smile -professional, practiced- and moves around the room with soft efficiency. She snaps on a pair of gloves, wheels her stool closer, and settles in.

“Alright, Mom,” she says gently, her voice warm and grounding. “Let’s take a look, okay?”

Rafe edges closer before you can respond, dragging the chair beside the bed with a quiet scrape. He doesn’t ask; he just moves like he can’t help it. And you don’t tell him to stop. Not when your chest already feels too tight.

Beside you, Becca exhales sharply, folding her arms like she’s bracing herself against a physical impact. You send her a subtle, pleading look -not now- and she presses her lips together, swallowing whatever commentary was about to burst out.

The cold gel touches your belly and you gasp, your shoulders jumping. Out of the corner of your eye, Rafe’s hand twitches. Reflexive. Automatic. Like his body remembers comforting you even if the two of you haven’t spoken without tension in months. But he doesn’t reach for you- his fingers just curl tightly into the fabric of his slacks instead.

The monitor flickers to life, casting soft blue light across Doctor Bryant’s face. She angles the probe, humming under her breath. “Here we are…” she murmurs. “Baby looks great. Strong heartbeat.”

The room goes quiet except for that fast, fluttering rhythm. Your heart lifts instantly. You breathe out shakily, staring at that tiny pulsing light. You hear it then- Rafe sniffles. Once. Quiet, almost strangled. You can’t bring yourself to look.

Doctor Bryant tilts the wand again, her smile widening. “And… if you want to know the sex-”

“Yes,” you say.

“Yes,” he echoes at the exact same moment.

You turn your head just enough to glance at him. He’s already looking at you. And for the first time in months, something in his expression softens- the smallest crack in all the walls, the resentment, the hurt. Yours loosen too, just barely.

“Well,” Doctor Bryant says, swiveling the monitor so all three of you can see. “Congratulations… it’s a girl.”

Everything stops. Your breath catches in your chest. Time, air, thought- everything just… stills.

Then Rafe lets out this small, broken sound. Barely there. Like he was trying to swallow it and failed. Becca covers her mouth with both hands, eyes instantly shining.

And you -God. You didn’t think you’d fall apart like this. But the moment the realization hits you -a daughter- the tears spill, hot and uncontrollable. Rafe laughs -sharp, breathless, already choked with emotion- as he drags the heel of his hand over his eyes. “I knew it,” he whispers hoarsely. “I knew she was a girl…”

You can’t speak at first. You’re crying too hard to get a word out. So you nod, laughing wetly through the tears. “You were right,” you finally breathe. “You were… you were right.”

And that’s what breaks him completely. He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, face buried in his hands. His shoulders shake once, twice- quiet, jagged breaths he can’t hold back. Four months of distance, anger, pride, hurt- it all just collapses under the weight of meeting his daughter for the first time.

Becca sniffles beside you, wiping her cheeks. “Jesus Christ,” she whispers, trying to laugh. “It’s a girl…” She’s overwhelmed but glowing, like the joy is too big to fit in her chest.

On the screen, your baby shifts. Tiny spine, perfect little profile, heartbeat flickering like stardust. Completely unaware of the emotional wreckage she’s causing. Rafe finally lifts his head. His cheeks are wet. His eyes are red. But there’s a brightness -something clean, stunned, unguarded- you haven’t seen on him since before the breakup.

“She’s beautiful,” he says. His voice is soft. Reverent. Honest in a way that slices straight through you. “She’s… beautiful.”

You nod, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “I know.”

For a moment -a fragile, precious moment- the room feels still. The kind of stillness you don’t want to breathe too loudly in case it breaks. No fighting. No bitterness. No old wounds tugging at the edges. Just two people who loved each other once, staring at the first proof of the one thing they’ll love forever. And the best friend who refused to let either of you face it alone.

Warm. Quiet. Soft around the edges.

Then the image freezes. Doctor Bryant presses a few buttons and prints two sonogram photo strips, handing it to you with a gentle smile. Without thinking, you share it with Rafe. He takes the corner of the picture so carefully you’d think it was glass.

“Hi, little girl,” he whispers, his voice barely holding steady. And your heart twists -painful, aching- because you know you’ll remember that sound for the rest of your life.

As you leave the exam room, Becca stays glued to your side like a shield, her arm looped through yours. Rafe trails a few steps behind- close enough that you can hear his breathing, far enough that you can pretend you don’t. You keep your eyes forward. There’s nothing left to say- not with your emotions still raw and the ultrasound picture tucked carefully in your bag. Becca squeezes your arm gently as the two of you reach her car, and you detangle from her just as she opens the driver-side door.

Then you hear it. “Y/N!”

You wince before you turn. Rafe is striding toward the car, hesitating like he’s not sure he has the right to come closer. You look at Becca over the roof of her car. She’s already giving him the hardest don’t you dare look she’s capable of. When she sees you hesitate, she shakes her head firmly -no, don’t entertain him, get in the car- but you close her door anyway before she can get another word out.

You step away from the car to meet him halfway, making sure he’s not crowding the door. You cross your arms protectively over your belly, raise your brows, and silently wait for him to speak.

Rafe approaches slowly, hands fidgeting like they’ve forgotten their purpose. His posture is small- soft shoulders, wilted stance, eyes darting everywhere except at you. It’s the most unsure you’ve seen him since… ever.

“I…” He sighs, rubbing a palm over his freshly buzzed hair, searching for words that refuse to come together.

You let your voice go flat. “Rafe, I have somewhere to be.” You don’t. But you need him to spit it out before your composure breaks.

He swallows once. Hard. “I miss you,” he finally murmurs.

The audacity. Your jaw tenses. You want to laugh in his face- loud, bitter, humorless. He was the one who walked away. He was the one who didn’t show up. He was the one who chose distance instead of honesty. And now he misses you? 

You manage only a short, dismissive nod. “I know I was the one that broke things off-”

A bark of humor leaves you before you can stop it. It’s sharp. Bitter. “Yeah,” you say, unable to hold it in.

He flinches almost imperceptibly at the tone. “I just…” He drags in a breath. “I want us to get on the same page. Where things can be cordial between us. For… for her.”

That -at least- makes sense. You glance back at Becca. She’s trying -and failing- to pretend she’s not staring. You turn back to him, exhaling through your nose.

“So… what? What do you want?” you ask quietly.

“I- We just need to get on the same page,” he repeats. “We don’t have to talk every day or be as close as… we were. We could be…” He hesitates. “Friends.”

You blink at him. Slowly. “Friends?”

He nods once, looking everywhere but your face. “Look- I’m trying to find a middle ground for the both of us.”

“And that’s fine, Rafe. Really. But ‘friends’ is asking a lot. Especially with how we ended.”

“I thought we were fine,” he mutters.

“We broke up because you didn’t want to let me know the real you.” The words come out softer than you expect. Not angry- just tired.

His mouth pulls into a tense line, like he’s biting down on something he refuses to say. “I just want a healthy… co-parenting relationship. For her.”

Co-parenting. Not a chance of reconciliation. Not even the faintest spark of trying again. Even though you know you shouldn’t care -even though you’re still angry- it stings. It sinks into your ribs like cold water. Because wanting him back feels weak, and hearing he doesn’t want the same feels worse.

“I understand that,” you say quietly. “And we can do that.”

Your gaze drops to the ground, foot nudging at the gravel to distract yourself from the burn behind your eyes. You can’t look at him. Not if you want to stay composed. Not if you don’t want to fall apart again in a parking lot.

“We’ll make it work for her,” you add softly. And it’s the truth. Even if it breaks a small, stupid part of your heart in the process.

“What did he want?” Becca demands the second you sink into the passenger seat. You barely have the door shut before she’s on you.

You buckle your seatbelt with a sigh. “He wanted to ‘make things work for the baby.’” You use air quotes, mimicking Rafe’s tone a little too perfectly.

Becca drags a dramatic hand down her face. “I hate him.”

“Becca…” you groan, resting your head against the seat. Her anger is valid -God, it’s earned- but you don’t want to stoke it. Not when you’re trying so hard to detach from your own bitterness. Sitting in secondhand rage won’t make co-parenting easier. It won’t make you healthier.

But Becca? She has no intention of letting go that easily.

“I’m just saying,” she mutters as she pulls out of the parking lot, eyes still narrowed. “He hurt my best friend.”

You nod, staring out the window. “I know. I do.”

And you mean it. But you also know you’ll suffocate if every person around you carries the same anger you’re trying to release. Becca takes a sharp left. “We’re skipping the salad bar,” she announces.

You blink. “You were so excited about the salad bar.”

“Yeah, well, you just found out you’re having a girl and your idiot ex showed up uninvited. You deserve grease.”

You snort, and it feels good- like something in your ribcage loosens. “Grease sounds good.”

“Grease heals,” she declares, already dialing Beau as she turns into a drive-thru. “Yo, you want food? …Okay, okay, chill. Cheeseburger, extra pickles. Got it.”

She hangs up and shakes her head. “He acts like I’m DoorDash.” You laugh softly, rubbing your belly as you order your own burger and fries. You’re starving. Nervous. Exhausted. And the baby is definitely making her cravings known.

By the time you pull up to Becca’s place, you can smell the fries through the bag. You follow her inside, and there he is -Beau- stretched out on the couch like a king who’s claimed new land. Feet planted boldly on the coffee table. Hair messy. Hoodie half-zipped. The picture of a man who does not pay rent.

A month ago, he’d been kicked out by their parents -well, by their father- for “wasting his life.” Their mother stayed silent but has quietly been wiring him money to survive on Becca’s couch until she can help him get an apartment. The whole thing breaks your heart a little.

“Yo,” Beau says, barely glancing up as Becca tosses him his food.

“Get your stinky feet off my table,” she snaps, smacking his shin.

“Damn,” Beau mutters, jerking his legs down with an exaggerated wince. “I’m a guest.”

“You’re a freeloader,” Becca fires back.

You sit in the rocking chair -the one with vibration settings- and switch it on immediately. The gentle motion soothes you as you dig into your bag and inhale the warm fragrance of a fresh burger.

“So,” Beau says, unwrapping his food. “What’s the verdict?”

“On?” Becca asks, her mouth already full as she takes a monstrous bite.

“What are you having?” He looks at you expectantly.

“Oh- a girl.” Your voice softens, your whole face loosening into a smile even you weren’t aware of. You peel back the foil like you’re opening a gift.

“So you owe me two hundred bucks,” Becca says, talking through a shamelessly full mouth.

“I’ll simply not give it to you,” Beau counters, taking a massive bite of his own burger.

“I’ll have Mom take it out of the funds she’s sending you this week,” Becca shoots back, finally swallowing the mountain of food in her cheeks.

“She wouldn’t do that. And it wasn’t even a real bet. I said ‘I’ll bet you two hundred it’s a boy’ as a figure of speech. Not literally.”

Their bickering is so identical -tone, expression, petty energy- that you can’t help smiling. The nausea that normally would’ve kicked up watching them inhale food doesn’t bother you this time. It’s comforting. Familiar. Something steady in a day that has been emotionally chaotic.

“What do you say, Y/n?” Beau asks, gesturing between them.

You shrug lightly. “I’m Bennett. I’m not in it.” The bite you take is normal-sized- well, normal compared to theirs anyway.

“Hey, I thought you were getting a salad,” Beau says.

“Oh, no. The appointment was… a lot. I needed this,” Becca says, waving her burger like it’s self-explanatory.

“What does that mean?” Beau asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Your friend showed up without telling anyone,” she says casually.

Your chewing slows. The taste turns to cardboard in your mouth. The moment replays in your head- him at the doorway, him staring at your belly, him crying. Your appetite disappears entirely.

“…friend?” Beau asks, eyebrows arching in that odd little way only he does.

“Rafe,” Becca says bluntly. She takes a long swig from her water bottle, sets it down, and leans forward with her elbows on her knees. The room goes still for a beat. Too still.

Beau’s head turns toward you slowly. “He showed up?”

You swallow hard, nodding once.

Just like that, the comfortable chaos of the room shifts- eyes on you, concern settling thick in the air. And you brace yourself, because the conversation isn’t over. Beau’s chewing slows. Not in judgment- just processing. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, nods once, and goes back to his fries like he’s choosing his words carefully.

“Oh. Well… that must’ve been… something,” he settles on, voice gentle but non-committal. Classic Beau- he’s not taking sides, not stirring the pot, just acknowledging the emotional whiplash without putting fuel on it. You appreciate it more than you can say.

“It was,” you answer quietly, eyes dropping to your burger that you suddenly don’t want anymore. Becca scoffs under her breath, ready to launch into another tirade, but Beau cuts in before she can wind herself up.

“Hey,” he says, pointing a fry at both of you, “let’s not ruin perfectly good food with stress. Especially my perfectly good food.” Becca rolls her eyes but settles back against the couch.

Beau unwraps his burger again and takes a thoughtful bite. “Speaking of stress,” he says with a mouthful, “I heard back from that business partner guy I told you about. The one in New York.”

Becca squints. “The crypto dude or the sneaker dude?”

“The sneaker dude,” Beau corrects, amused. “The one trying to flip those limited-edition pairs for that boutique near SoHo. He wants me to come up soon- apparently he’s got investors lined up who actually know what they’re doing, which is… shocking.”

You smile faintly. Beau pretending to act unimpressed is his way of hiding how hopeful he is.

“That’s good,” you say, and you mean it. “You need something new. A fresh start.”

“Yeah.” He nods, picking at the sesame seeds on his bun. “He said it could turn into something long-term if it works out. Maybe even get me outta here sooner than expected.”

Becca nudges him with her foot. “That’d be good for you.”

Beau shrugs, eyes on his food. “Could be good for all of us. You guys should come up when it happens. I know you’ve been wanting a break,” he adds, glancing your way but not pushing. “And you got people up there too, right? Friends?”

You nod slowly- Noel, Allegra, your small, bright pocket of New York life.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I do.”

And sitting here in this cramped, cozy living room -with the smell of cheap burgers, the blanket draped over the couch, the low hum of Becca’s ancient AC- you feel something loosen in your chest.

There is more to your life than heartbreak. And maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to remember that.

-----------

Her body tenses instantly- the kind of stiffness that comes from a truth she’s not ready to say aloud. She looks toward the hallway, maybe hoping one of the others will come back and save her from answering. But no one does. It’s just the sound of the ceiling fan and the faint chirp of morning birds outside.

“Y/N…” she says finally, voice low. “I don’t think that’s something you want to know.”

You stare at her, shaking your head. “I do. I need to. Because he won’t tell me. Every time I try, he shuts down, and I can’t-” your throat tightens, “-I can’t marry someone who looks at me like I’m the enemy whenever I mention your name.”

Sarah swallows hard, eyes flicking down to your hand- to the faint indentation where your engagement ring presses into your skin. Her jaw flexes.

“It’s not that simple,” she whispers. “What happened between Rafe and us… it’s not something that can just be explained over tea.”

“Try,” you say quietly, almost pleading just as the others begin to come back one by one.

Sarah looks torn- guilt flickering across her face. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, like the words are caught somewhere between her throat and conscience. Finally, she exhales shakily, pressing her palms flat on the table.

“There are things he’s done,” she says at last, “things I don’t think you could ever look at him the same way after hearing.”

You freeze. Her words hang in the air, cold and final.

Your voice is small when you ask, “Did he hurt you?”

Sarah’s silence says more than anything else could. JJ’s voice cuts through the thick, uneasy silence.“Sarah, come on,” he says, leaning forward in his chair. “She deserves to know.”

Sarah shoots him a sharp look, but it doesn’t stop him. “JJ,” she warns quietly.

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m serious. You can’t just- pretend like that didn’t happen. Especially if she’s…” He trails off, glancing at you, then at the mug trembling in your hands. “She’s marrying him, Sarah. You really gonna keep quiet about what Rafe’s capable of?”

“JJ,” John B cuts in firmly. “This isn’t your call.”

JJ scoffs, dropping back in his seat. “Yeah, sure, but it’s not yours either. She’s sitting here, crying her eyes out, trying to make sense of the guy she’s about to spend the rest of her with. And we’re just gonna play dumb?”

Cleo exhales slowly, arms crossed as she leans against the counter. “He has a point,” she mutters.

Pope looks between them all, clearly uncomfortable. “But if Sarah tells her, Rafe will know it came from here. And who do you think he’s gonna come after?”

Sarah rubs her hands over her face, visibly torn. “It’s not about Rafe,” she says finally, her voice shaking. “It’s about you. And what hearing this might do to you. You don’t know him like that- you know the version he shows you.”

Your voice cracks as you interrupt, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know him at all, do I?”

They all fall silent again.

Sarah looks at you, eyes soft and pained. “I think you should hear it from him,” she says. “Not from us. It’ll mean something different that way. And if he can’t be honest with you now… then that tells you everything you need to know.”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening. You swallow hard, holding back another wave of tears.

“Okay,” you say, voice trembling. “Okay.”

The room stays quiet after that, just the sound of the kettle clicking off behind you.

Sarah gets up, grabs the mug from your hands, and refills it with fresh hot water. When she sets it back down in front of you, her voice is barely a whisper.

“If you need to stay here for a bit… you can.”

——

When you get home, it’s barely 8 a.m. The world is quiet in that soft, pale light that comes before the day really begins  -the kind of quiet that makes you feel small. After leaving their house, you didn’t drive straight back. You found yourself at the water instead, sitting in the same spot where Rafe first took you- that night that felt like the start of everything. You remember how he looked at you then, how real it all felt. But now, even that memory feels tainted.

You stare out at the rippling surface, wondering if you’d fallen in love with someone who never truly existed. If the man who held you and promised you forever was just a carefully constructed version of himself- one he thought you’d believe.

By the time you finally pulled into the driveway, your body felt hollow. You close the front door without a second thought, the soft click echoing through the empty house. You don’t even bother to move quietly anymore. What’s the point?

Your stomach twists as you think about what Sarah didn’t say- the silence that filled every corner of that room when you asked what happened between them and Rafe. That silence said enough. Something’s wrong. Something’s dark.

You press a shaking hand to your forehead, heart pounding.

Maybe this was why he didn’t want you near them. Maybe he knew the truth would eventually find its way to you. And maybe the version of Rafe you loved -the one who laughed with you, planned a wedding with you, kissed your shoulder in the mornings- was just a mask he wore to keep you from seeing what was underneath.

You swallow hard, fighting the sting in your chest.

If that’s the case, then it’s already too late -because you didn’t just fall for him. You built your life around him. And now you’re not sure if any of it was real. Your mother warned you about him, and you didn’t listen. You brushed it off as her usual skepticism- her way of testing every man who came near you. But standing here now, drained and hollow, you can’t help but wonder if she’d been right all along.

The quiet of the house feels heavy, too neat, like nothing bad could possibly exist within it. You step further inside, and there’s Eve perched at the kitchen island, iPad in hand, pencil tucked behind her ear like always.

“You’re home!” she chirps, barely looking up as her fingers dance across the screen. “I was wondering where you went. The wine tasting starts at three-thirty. At twelve, you have brunch with Becca and Marie- Becca confirmed it this morning. Oh, and your friends from New York? They went back home. Something about Noel having an art gallery event, but they’ll be back in two weeks.”

Her voice is smooth, efficient- like a walking calendar app with too much enthusiasm. You nod absently. You’d forgotten about the wine tasting, the brunch, all of it. The idea of sitting across from Rafe, pretending to be a glowing fiancée, makes your stomach turn. You’re not even sure you can look at him without feeling sick- not after realizing how little you actually know about the man you’ve been building a life with.

“Everything okay?” Eve asks, all wide-eyed concern. But you catch the faint glint in her gaze- she knows. She was here last night, wasn’t she? Definitely heard the argument. Maybe even enjoyed watching it unfold from behind her tablet screen.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “I’m fine,” you say, your voice thin with exhaustion as you slip your shoes off by the door. “I’m going to take a nap.”

You head down the hall, then up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. You pause at the guest room -the same one you slept in last night- your hand resting on the door handle. But when your gaze drifts toward the end of the hall, toward the primary bedroom, something in you tightens.

Your bedroom. Rafe’s.

Why should you be the one sleeping in a guest room? You’re not the one who’s been living a lie. You made a mistake, sure- going behind his back to see Sarah and the Pogues. You own that. But you went searching for truth, and he’s been hiding from it. From you.

He’s been showing you this carefully polished version of himself- the doting fiancé, the steady provider, the man who wants a family. But underneath all that charm, there’s something darker, something he refuses to name. Whatever happened between him, Sarah, and the Pogues -it’s not small. You can feel it in your bones.

If -and it’s a big if- you still go through with this wedding, it can’t be built on secrets. You deserve to know who he is. Who he’s hurt. How far he’s gone. You deserve the truth- not a persona crafted to keep you in the dark.

You inhale sharply. Fuck it.

You push the bedroom door open.

It’s empty. The faint smell of his cologne still lingers- clean and sharp, like cedar and regret. The comforter’s rumpled on his side, and one of his watches sits carelessly on the dresser. The absence of him somehow makes it easier to breathe.

You exhale, drop your towel, and crawl into the cool sheets. The tension in your chest eases slightly. You grab your phone, set an alarm to give yourself time to wake up, shower, and make it to brunch with Becca - maybe Marie, if Becca actually invited her.

The moment your head hits the pillow, exhaustion wins. Thoughts blur into static - your mother’s voice, Sarah’s hesitation, Rafe’s anger - all swirling into silence as you finally, mercifully, drift off to sleep.

——

You wake to your alarm blaring, the afternoon sun spilling through the window in warm, unbothered streaks. For a moment, you forget everything- until the ache in your chest reminds you. You reach for your phone. No texts from Rafe. No missed calls. The house feels too still, too quiet, like it’s waiting for you to admit something you’re not ready to.

After a long shower, you pull on a white tank top and a floral orange-and-yellow maxi skirt, slicking your hair into a low bun. You stare at your reflection longer than usual. You look fine. You can act fine.

By the time you pull up to the brunch spot, it’s buzzing with the lazy afternoon crowd. You check in at the host stand and spot Becca waving from across the patio, sunglasses perched on her head, iced water already half gone. Marie isn’t there yet.

“Hey,” you greet her with what you hope is an easy smile, slipping into the seat across from her.

“Hey,” she echoes, squinting at you like she’s trying to read the fine print of your expression. “You look… tired.”

You shrug, brushing it off as the server drops off a menu. “Didn’t sleep great. Rafe snores.”

Becca hums, unconvinced. “Mhm.”

Before she can press, Marie arrives- oversized sunglasses, expensive silver hoops, and a bright two-piece that’s definitely doing a lot for brunch but somehow works for her.

“Sorry, traffic was insane.” She leans down to hug you both before sliding in beside you. “I need a mimosa pitcher. If that’s okay.”

You nod gratefully, taking the chance to hide behind your napkin.

Conversation drifts easily at first -Becca talks about work, Marie complains about a guy who ghosted her after three dates suddenly hitting her up again- but you’re barely there. You laugh in the right places, sip your drink, push food around your plate.

Becca eventually narrows her eyes again. “So. You’re really not gonna tell us what’s going on?”

You blink, feigning confusion. “What do you mean?”

She tilts her head. “You’ve been weird all week. I thought maybe it was just stress, but now you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Marie nods slowly, side-eyeing you. “You didn’t even touch your pancakes.”

You force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m fine. Just… tired. Wedding planning, pregnancy hormones- it’s a lot.”

Becca studies you for a beat longer, like she’s deciding whether to call your bluff. Then she lets out a small sigh and leans back. “Okay. Fine. But you know you don’t have to pretend, right?”

“I’m not pretending,” you say lightly, even though you both know you are.

Marie raises her glass, breaking the tension. “Well, here’s to pretending anyway. God knows I’ve done enough of it. Especially with orgasms.”

You laugh with them, clinking glasses, but the sound doesn’t reach your chest. The whole time, your mind drifts back to that conversation with Sarah- the way her voice shook, the way she looked at you like she pitied you.

And as you sip your virgin mimosa, you wonder if Becca can tell that the ring on your finger suddenly feels too heavy.

The three of you end up lingering at brunch longer than you planned. The conversation eventually settles into something easy- Becca teasing Marie about her outfit, Marie dramatically insisting she’s “manifesting better energy,” and you pretending to listen, smiling when you’re supposed to.

Becca keeps watching you though. You can feel it even when you’re not looking at her, like she’s waiting for you to crack.

When the bill finally comes, Marie insists on paying (“It’s my treat, brides only get married once- or twice, if you’re lucky”), and Becca rolls her eyes. You gather your things, grateful to have had something to do with your hands.

Outside, the sun’s warmer than expected, the kind that makes everything feel slightly surreal. Marie’s already scrolling through her phone, checking the address for the wine tasting.

“Are we all heading there together?” Becca asks, keys jangling in her hand.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second too long. “Oh- uh, no. Rafe’s supposed to meet me there.”

Marie glances up. “He’s not picking you up?”

You shake your head, forcing an airy tone. “He had something to handle this morning. Said he’d meet me at the vineyard.”

Becca’s brow furrows slightly. “You sure? It’s kind of a drive, and with the way you’ve been feeling-”

“I’m fine,” you cut in, sharper than intended. You soften it with a small smile. “Really. I’ll see you guys there.”

They exchange a quick look -one of those silent, wordless girl-friend telepathies- and Marie shrugs, nudging Becca’s arm. “Okay, but if you’re late, we’re starting without you.”

You wave as they walk off toward their car, keeping your smile in place until they’re out of sight. Only then do you let your shoulders drop.

For a moment, you just stand there in the parking lot, sunlight glinting off the ring on your finger. You twist it once, twice, until it feels loose. The brunch laughter still echoes faintly in your head, but underneath it is something else- Sarah’s voice, low and uncertain, repeating the same words over and over.

You pull out your phone, thumb hovering over Rafe’s location again. You tell yourself you won’t look. That you’ll trust him. But your stomach churns with that familiar unease- the kind that feels a lot like knowing the truth, even if you’re too afraid to see it.Finally, you slip your phone back into your bag, take a steadying breath, and walk toward your car.

Because for now, pretending still feels easier than finding out.

By the time you pull into the vineyard, the sun is warm but not harsh, and the air carries that faint, earthy scent of oak barrels and soil. You park and step out, adjusting your maxi skirt as you spot everyone gathered near the tasting tables. Becca waves, already halfway through telling a story, and Marie is laughing too loudly at some detail. Your mom is perched on a folding chair, glass of sparkling water in hand, while Topper leans lazily against a barrel nearby.

Then there’s Rafe. Leaning casually on the table, hands in his pockets, sunglasses on, scanning the group with that infuriatingly calm look he always manages to pull off. And behind him, Eve- tucked slightly to the side, iPad in hand, scribbling or typing something down, quietly taking in the scene like she’s part of the furniture. Though, you don’t recall inviting her.

Your chest tightens as you walk toward them, forcing a polite smile. “Hey,” you say, voice steady, though your fingers clutch the strap of your bag a little too tightly.

“Hey, bride-to-be,” Rafe says, voice casual, tipping an imaginary hat. His smile is there, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You bite back a groan.

“Hi,” you reply, keeping your tone light. “I’ll just… watch from here. No wine for me today.” You give a nod to the sommelier, letting him know you won’t be tasting.

Marie rolls her eyes at your warning but smirks. “ Someone has to remember what happens here.”

Rafe tilts his head at you, expression neutral. “Someone has to keep us all in line,” he says lightly. You grit your teeth just behind your smile.

Eve glances up briefly from her iPad. “Glad you could make it,” she says. That simple acknowledgment sets your teeth on edge - she should know that she shouldn’t be here, and you’re still seething under the surface.

“Thanks,” you say flatly, eyes flicking away.

Becca steps in between the two of you like an unwitting buffer. “Okay, so here’s the plan. We’re tasting in groups- I’ll keep everyone organized.” She glances at you. “You just hang back and make sure no one tries to spill wine on you.” She gives you a playful wink, but you can feel the tension in your shoulders, the heat rising from your chest.

Rafe moves closer to the table where the bottles are lined up, flipping one over, inspecting the label. You force yourself to glance at him -calm, composed, flawless- and suppress the urge to march over and call him out for inviting Eve behind your back, for violating the unspoken boundaries between you.

Beau pops up beside Rafe, joking about one of the labels, and Rafe smirks, joining the banter like it’s normal. Your jaw tightens. You’re literally only here because you’re the bride, and yet he’s playing some sort of game using Eve like none of this matters.

You take a breath and let Becca pull you toward the chairs set up under the pergola. “Come on, you can supervise,” she says. You give a forced laugh, sliding into your seat. You keep your posture stiff, back straight, hands folded in your lap. Every time Rafe’s gaze flicks to you -and you know it does- you remind yourself: cordial. Controlled.

The group moves through the wine tasting, glasses clinking, bottles being opened. Everyone is engaged, chatting, laughing, but there’s a subtle undercurrent- a quiet tension whenever Rafe and you are in the same visual line. You notice the little things: the way Rafe leans slightly toward Eve when she talks, how he laughs at something she says, the small nods he gives her. You fight the wave of frustration rising inside.

When Topper cracks a joke that makes everyone laugh, even you, Rafe shoots a quick glance at you. His expression unreadable, almost apologetic, though he doesn’t say anything. You catch your breath, willing yourself not to explode, not to bring up the betrayal in front of everyone.

The tasting continues, the afternoon sun dipping lower. You sip water, forcing yourself to engage in polite conversation, all the while watching Rafe move through the motions, Eve close at his side, and realizing just how much you’re suppressing.

This is your wedding, you remind yourself. You’re the bride. You don’t need to get pulled into his games. But every polite smile feels like a lie, and every shared laugh he gives Eve is a dagger twisting in your chest.

By the time the group starts moving to the next tasting station, you’re exhausted - not from walking or socializing, but from holding yourself together. And in the back of your mind, you know it won’t be long before all this pretending catches up to you- and when it does, it won’t be polite anymore.

You step a few feet away from the table, forcing yourself to breathe in the crisp morning air of the vineyard. The tension in your chest burns, and you can feel Rafe’s presence before you hear him.

“You’re not going to let it go, are you?” he mutters sharply, his voice low but laced with controlled anger. He steps closer, eyes narrowed, jaw tight.

“Let what go?” you snap, spinning to face him, heat rising in your chest. “You want to talk about letting things go? You’ve been hiding everything from me. Everything! And I find out -through others- that you hurt Sarah. That you… that you did something to her!”

His eyes widen, just slightly, like he didn’t expect you to know. His hand clenches at his side. “What are you talking about?” His voice drops to a harsh whisper.

“You know what I’m talking about.” You pause to allow the tears to dry out before looking back to him. “I don’t know everything,” you hiss back, voice shaking despite yourself. “But enough to know that I can’t just sit here and pretend like I don’t know. And then you’re inviting Eve behind my back like some petty revenge because I went to see the Pogues?!”

Rafe steps closer, lowering his voice but the anger is sharp in every word. “That’s not revenge. You went behind my back first! You went to them, you talked to Sarah- you went again this morning! And I didn’t even know!”

You stiffen. “Yes, I did. Because I needed to know what the hell is going on. Because you won’t tell me. You pretend to be someone else around me. You smile, you charm, you act like… like nothing happened, but it did! And I deserved to know.”

“You deserved to know?” he echoes, disbelief coloring his tone. “You think you can just march in there and get answers while I’m supposed to sit here like a child?!”

Your voice rises, just enough to scare yourself. “I went because what you were showing me wasn’t the whole truth! And now I’m supposed to just ignore everything else? Pretend that your secrets -whatever you’ve done- don’t exist? I can’t, Rafe. I just can’t!”

His jaw tightens, and he swallows hard. “I didn’t want you to find out through them. I wanted to be able to tell you myself. And… I didn’t think you’d actually go back to them. Not after the first time!”

You glance at him, the anger mingling with disbelief. “Tell me yourself? Really? Would that have been before or after I would've been trapped in a marriage with you? And then you think I could just let that go? I fell in love with some fake version of you, and I find out you’ve… hurt people, Rafe. And you expect me to just… sit in your lap and smile?”

He flinches at the accusation, eyes flicking away for just a second, like he’s realizing the weight of what you know. “I didn’t- no, you don’t understand. It’s not what you think.”

“Not what I think?” you snap. “I don’t know, Rafe! And that’s the point. I don’t know the half of it, and you won’t tell me! And now, somehow, you’re acting like I’m the problem for trying to figure it out myself?!”

His hands clench at his sides, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “You don’t get it- you think you’re protecting yourself, but all you’ve done is go behind my back, the way I guess you think I went behind yours. You went to Sarah, and I… I didn’t want you to. Not because I don’t trust you… because I didn’t want to- ”

“Because you didn’t want me to what? Because it would expose you?” you cut in, voice trembling with fury. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time, Rafe! And I’m supposed to act normal at a wine tasting while you sit there acting like everything is fine?”

He exhales sharply, jaw tight, and the sudden quiet between you is almost worse than the whispered yelling. You can see the anger, the frustration, the realization in his eyes. He didn’t expect you to know, and now that you do, he understands just how deep this goes.

“Fine,” he mutters finally, low and tense. “We… we’ll pretend. For them. But you… you need to understand something. This isn’t just about the Pogues. It’s not just about Sarah. You… you have no idea what you’re stepping into.”

You stare at him, chest heaving, and the bitter truth in his words makes your stomach twist. “No. You’re wrong. I do understand that there’s more to you. But I’m done pretending I don’t. And if we’re going to move forward… if we’re going to get married… I need to know. Everything. Or I can’t do this. I just can’t.”

His eyes flick to yours, full of something unreadable- a mix of anger, fear, and something that almost looks like regret. “You went to Sarah again,” he says, quiet now, and it’s almost a statement of fact, not a question.

“Yes,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “Because I need to know who I’m marrying. And because I don’t want to be in the dark anymore. Not with a child on the way. Not ever.”

Rafe’s chest rises and falls, his fists unclenching just a little. “You don’t know what you’ve done,” he mutters, though his voice lacks the previous fire. “You’ve forced me to… face things I’ve tried to bury.”

You step back, the tension in the air heavy, your anger mingling with exhaustion. “Good. Because I won’t bury anything for you. Not anymore.”

The moment stretches between you both, heavy with unsaid truths, the knowledge that whatever comes next is going to change everything- wedding, pregnancy, and the fragile trust between you.

When you and Rafe return to the table, the air feels heavier -thicker, even- as if everyone can sense that something’s cracked beneath the surface. You take your seat, careful not to brush against him, though he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of his arm beside you. The others keep chatting, trying to smooth over the awkward energy, but the strain is obvious.

Your mom perks up almost instantly, oblivious- or maybe too aware, trying to diffuse it with politeness.

“Are you two okay? Rafe, you’ve missed the past two wines.”

Before he can open his mouth, you cut in quickly, sharper than you mean to. “We’re fine, Mom.”

You don’t look at him. You keep your eyes trained on the empty glass in front of you, the scent of cabernet hanging in the air making your stomach twist. You can’t drink, so you focus on slow, shallow breaths instead- counting them, grounding yourself, trying not to let your thoughts spiral.

The sommelier moves on to the next bottle, describing the “notes of blackberry and smoke” while you tune it all out. Rafe leans back in his chair, jaw tight, thumb tapping an impatient rhythm on his knee. He hasn’t said a word since you sat down, but his silence is loud enough to fill the space between you.

Your phone buzzes in your lap. You glance down.

Becs: uhhh you guys good?

You glance up, and Becca’s staring at you from across the table with that unmistakable look- eyebrows slightly raised, concern etched across her face, not even bothering to pretend she hasn’t noticed.

You tap back a reply.

You: I’m fine. Why?

Another ping, almost immediately.

Becs: we’re just gonna pretend you didn’t have a whispered argument over there?

You fight the urge to glance at Rafe again, knowing Becca saw more than she should’ve. Instead, you type quickly, fingers tense.

You: we’ll talk about it later.

When you look up again, Becca’s already turned back toward Marie, clearly trying to give you space- but her eyes still flick toward you every few seconds, checking in silently.

You shift in your chair, pretending to adjust your napkin, but really just trying to keep your composure. Your mom’s voice hums faintly in the background, the sommelier’s spiel washing over you like static. You feel Rafe’s hand twitch beside you, like he almost reached for yours out of habit- but stops himself before he does.

It’s quiet. Painfully quiet.

And all you can think about is how impossible it feels to keep pretending you’re okay when every part of you is burning to ask him what he’s still hiding.

When the wine tasting finally winds down, there’s a collective murmur around the table as everyone votes on their favorite. Empty bottles and half-filled glasses clutter the white tablecloth, the air thick with that mellow scent of fruit and oak.

Topper raises his glass dramatically. “I’m just saying- my grandpa’s favorite always wins,” he declares, voice booming across the table. “Classic never fails.”

A few people laugh, and even your mom humors him with a smile, though you can tell she’s just glad to steer the mood somewhere lighthearted.

Becca and Marie have stayed mostly quiet for the last hour, only chiming in when someone directly asks for their opinions. You can feel their eyes on you every so often -gentle, worried, cautious- but neither of them pushes. They know better than to prod when your walls are up.

You’ve been quiet too, keeping your hands folded neatly in your lap, nodding when appropriate, pretending to listen to the sommelier’s final notes. It’s easier that way. You don’t need to taste anything; your pregnancy gives you the perfect excuse to withdraw without question. Still, sitting there sober while everyone else sips and laughs makes the distance between you and Rafe feel even more unbearable.

Your mom, as always, steps in to fill the silence. She’s animated now, leading the conversation effortlessly- asking about table arrangements, vineyard views, even bringing up potential menu pairings. You can tell she’s trying to keep everyone engaged, maybe even trying to shield you. 

She’s always been good at that.

But your focus keeps drifting. Every time Rafe shifts beside you, your attention snaps back. He’s been doing that thing he does when he’s avoiding your eyes- talking to anyone but you. Eve sits on his other side, laughing softly at something he says, her hand brushing his arm once or twice.

It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does. You tell yourself it’s fine, that you don’t care, that this is what happens when two people decide to hurt each other back. But your chest tightens anyway, your stomach turning even before the scent of wine hits you again. You press a palm against the tablecloth, grounding yourself, forcing a small smile when your mom looks your way.

Everything looks normal from the outside- just another wedding outing, just another couple planning their future. But beneath the linen and laughter, you can feel the cracks spreading. 

When the tasting wraps, the group slowly begins gathering their things- emptying glasses, scribbling down their votes, stretching from sitting too long. The air feels lighter for everyone else, but not for you. For you, it’s thick, suffocating.

Rafe stands, exchanging a few words with your mom about scheduling a follow-up visit. His tone is calm, collected, maybe even charming to an outsider- but you can see the sharpness in his jaw, the tightness behind the smile. The same controlled tension that’s been brewing since the argument.

Eve laughs softly at something Beau says, her bangles clinking when she sets her glass down. She doesn’t seem to notice your glare- or maybe she does and enjoys pretending she doesn’t. You try not to look, but it’s impossible not to see her sitting there, close enough to touch Rafe’s shoulder if she wanted to.

“Alright, I think we have our winner,” your mom announces cheerfully. “Cabernet number three. Smooth, elegant, perfect for the reception.”

Everyone murmurs in agreement, some clapping lightly. You nod absently, eyes trained on your half-empty glass of water.

As chairs scrape and people start filing out toward the exit, Becca lingers back, pretending to fix her purse strap. She sidles up to you, her voice low enough that no one else can hear.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks softly, eyes searching your face.

You swallow, forcing a tight smile. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

Becca’s lips purse. “Yeah, you said that earlier too.”

You glance past her- Rafe’s talking to your mom again, his hand in his pocket, perfectly at ease. Like nothing’s wrong. Like you didn’t both nearly rip each other apart under your breath half an hour ago.

You look back at Becca. “I’ll tell you later, okay?” you say quietly, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear. “I just… can’t right now.”

Becca studies you for a second, her eyes softening. She doesn’t push, just nods once. “Alright. But you’re not fooling me, and you know it.”

You huff out a faint, humorless laugh. “Didn’t think I was.”

Before either of you can say more, Rafe turns toward you, his voice steady but clipped. “You ready?”

You nod, slipping your bag over your shoulder. “Yeah.”

He offers a hand, a gesture that feels more performative than genuine- something for your mom’s benefit. You take it anyway, because pretending is easier than another fight.

As you walk toward the exit together, Becca watches from behind, worry etched into her expression.

And though the sun is still shining over the vineyard, everything between you feels like it’s slowly going cold.

When the group starts scattering toward the parking lot, Rafe naturally falls in step beside you. It’s silent at first- no words, no small talk, not even the polite kind. Just the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes and the low murmur of laughter from the others behind you.

He’s walking you to your car, the way he always does. The gesture is automatic, rehearsed. It looks normal from the outside, like everything’s fine. Like you’re still that couple people envy for being so “put together.”

But neither of you says a word.

Your hands brush once -accidental, fleeting- and he takes it as his cue, reaching for yours out of habit. You let him, only because you can feel your mother’s eyes on your back and you don’t have the strength to start another argument in a parking lot full of people.

The silence stretches as you approach your car. He stops when you do, standing just close enough that you can smell his cologne under the faint breeze. His expression is unreadable -controlled, careful- but you catch the smallest flicker of guilt in his eyes when he glances at you.

You let go of his hand first.

“Thanks,” you say quietly, your voice flat. You don’t look at him when you open the car door.

He nods once, his tone equally clipped. “Drive safe.”

You almost laugh—drive safe. Like the past 24 hours hadn’t happened, like you hadn’t both whispered threats and accusations between sips of water and fake smiles. Like everything was normal.

“Yeah,” you murmur, getting in. “You too.”

He steps back as you close the door, watching you through the glass. You can’t tell if he’s waiting for you to say something else or if he’s just making sure the performance looks good from the outside.

You start the car, pretending not to notice the way his jaw tightens when you finally pull away.

In the rearview mirror, he’s still standing there—hands in his pockets, face unreadable, sunlight catching on his hair like it’s mocking how warm things used to be between you.

——

You toss your bag onto the couch with a dull thud, the leather slumping against the cushions. The sound echoes through the quiet house, heavy with everything left unsaid.

“Y/n,” Rafe calls from behind you, his footsteps following close.

You don’t stop walking. “Unless you’re about to tell me everything,” you snap, voice tight, “I don’t want to hear it.”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “And I didn’t want you talking to those fucking Pogues,” he fires back, his tone sharp, almost taunting. “And yet-” He gestures around the room, pacing. “Here we are.”

You stop dead in your tracks and turn to face him. “The difference,” you say, voice trembling more from anger than fear, “is that you didn’t want me talking to them because you had something to hide.”

His jaw ticks. “Doesn’t matter if I was hiding something or not,” he snaps, his voice rising, “you still went behind my back before you even knew that!”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Your heartbeat thrums in your ears. You can see the muscle in his jaw twitching, his chest heaving like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“You’re really gonna stand there and make me the problem?” you ask, voice breaking slightly. “When you’re the one who’s been lying to me- keeping God knows what from me- while I’m planning a wedding and carrying your child?”

That last part lands between you like a slap. His face flickers -guilt, shock, maybe even regret- but he says nothing.

You shake your head, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes. “You think me going to talk to Sarah is betrayal, but hiding whatever it is that you did to her- that’s justifiable?”

His mouth opens, then closes again. His silence is all the answer you need.

You take a step back, your voice soft but shaking. “You want to keep pretending? Fine. But don’t expect me to.”

The air between you is thick with everything you both can’t say- anger, fear, disappointment, love that’s starting to feel like a bruise.

You stare at him, chest rising and falling, waiting for him to say something- anything that makes sense of this. But instead, Rafe just shakes his head, running a hand over his hair, pacing like he’s seconds away from snapping.

“Maybe we should just call the wedding off,” he mutters finally, his voice low but sharp enough to cut straight through you.

You blink, your breath catching in your throat. “What?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it again, more certain this time. “Maybe we should call it off.”

For a second, you can’t even move. The words hang there, heavy and cruel, echoing in your chest until you almost laugh from disbelief. “You’d rather call off our wedding,” you whisper, “than just tell me the truth?”

He exhales, jaw tightening, eyes flicking toward the floor. “It’s not that simple.”

Your voice breaks into a bitter scoff. “No, Rafe- it is that simple.” You take a step toward him, your tone trembling. “You’ve been lying to me, shutting me out, and the second I ask why, you’d rather throw all of this away than just be honest?”

He finally looks up, and there’s something cold in his expression- guilt buried under pride. “You wouldn’t understand,” he says.

You stare at him, almost laughing through the ache in your chest. “You’re right,” you whisper. “I don’t. Because you won’t let me.”

He stays silent, the space between you buzzing with unspoken things.

You swallow, feeling your throat tighten. “Maybe we should,” you say quietly. “Maybe we should call it off.”

The words taste bitter on your tongue, but you don’t take them back. You can’t. Not when the man in front of you -the one who once made you feel safe- now feels like a stranger. He doesn’t move, doesn’t argue. Just stares at you with that same quiet, haunted look. And that hurts worse than if he’d yelled.

You turn away before he can see the tears spill over, muttering a shaky, “I can’t do this right now,” as you walk down the hall- leaving him standing there in the living room, motionless, surrounded by everything you both built together that suddenly feels like it’s already starting to fall apart.

 —

“Jesus fucking Christ.” You hiss through your teeth, jerking your hand back as the edge of the oven rack scorches your skin. The smell of baked apples and caramelized sugar fills Becca’s kitchen, but all you can focus on is the sting blooming across your palm. You set the pie -slightly lopsided, edges too dark- on the stovetop with a loud clang, muttering a quick, instinctive apology to your grandmother for taking the Lord’s name in vain. Old habits, even after she’s gone.

You twist the faucet on and let the cold water run over your hand, wincing as the temperature shocks the burn.

Becca watches from across the kitchen island, brow furrowed, but says nothing. She’s holding a bottle of wine she bought “for moral support,” which really just means getting drunk. She pops the cork, the sharp thunk echoing louder than it should in the quiet space.

For a while, neither of you speak. The kitchen hums softly with the sound of running water and the faint whir of the refrigerator. The silence isn’t uncomfortable- it’s the kind that exists when two people know each other too well to fill it with small talk.

You dry your hands on a towel, the burn already throbbing less, and glance over as Becca pours wine into an absurdly large glass. You can’t drink, obviously, but watching her swirl the dark liquid like it’s some kind of ritual almost soothes you.

“Looks drinkable,” you say softly, just to say something.

“Barely,” she replies, her voice light but her eyes searching yours.

You both fall quiet again, the smell of a freshly homemade pie lingering between you. You exhale slowly, leaning against the counter, letting the weight of everything -of Rafe, of last night, of the exhaustion you’ve been carrying- sink into your bones.

Becca doesn’t push. She never does, not until you’re ready. She just takes a long sip from her glass, eyes flicking toward you like she’s silently saying, whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m here.

And for now, that’s enough. But you were ready to talk. You just didn’t know how. So you blurt it out.

“I think I’m gonna cancel the wedding.”

Your eyes stay fixed on the counter like the words might disappear if you don’t look up. Shame prickles at your skin. And maybe you should be ashamed. You jumped into this engagement so fast- even when he asked so casually. There was no grand moment, no real pause to think, just the weight of his gaze and your heart racing too loud to hear reason.

You remember when you didn’t take the bare minimum from a man. When you had standards- expectations. When you made him ask properly to be your boyfriend, because you knew what you deserved and you weren’t afraid to say it. That girl had a spine. She had a voice.

Now, you’re not sure what happened to her. The version of you that let him pull a ring out of his pocket like it was nothing- like proposing to you was just another question in passing- feels like a stranger. You miss the first girl. You miss how sure she was of herself.

Becca freezes mid-sip, glass halfway to her mouth. “What? No! You can’t,” she says, voice sharp with disbelief. “You’ve been getting so much ready -your dress, the venue, everything. You can’t just- cancel it.”

You shrug weakly, finally looking up at her. “Maybe I can.”

The words hang in the air, fragile and final at the same time.

“No, Y/n, I can’t let you throw this all away. You two went through hell this past year- it’s gotta be worth it.”

You know she means it with love. With protection. With the desperation of someone who has watched you bend yourself in half just to feel safe again. But with everything you’ve learned- everything that’s unraveling- it makes you wonder if any of it could be worth it, even if you were to walk down that aisle tomorrow.

You take a slow, shaky breath and set your palms flat on the counter, staring at the cool surface like it’s the only thing holding you upright.

“Rafe isn’t the person I thought he was.”

Your voice cracks on the last word. Tears rise before you even feel them, the grief of betrayal hitting you all over again. You don’t look up, but you know -you know- Becca’s head tilts with confusion.

“What do you mean?” she asks softly.

You swipe quickly at the tear that slips down your cheek, angry it escaped before you were ready.

“I did something…” you breathe out, voice trembling. “Rafe hates his sister and the Pogues so much. Always has. And I always wondered why, but I never pressed it. I just… trusted him. Trusted that he’d tell me when he was ready.”

The shame burns.

“But after that small interaction with Sarah -the day I got sick at the store- it just kept nagging at me. They were kind. Confused, yeah, but kind. I couldn’t understand why he hated these sweet kids so much.”

Becca stays quiet, listening. Watching you unravel.

“I came clean to him about visiting them,” you continue, “and he blew up on me. We blew up on each other. And when he still refused to tell me anything, I went back again. Because I was scared. Because I felt like if I was marrying someone who won’t even talk to his own sister of all people, who else would he do that to?”

Your throat tightens painfully.

“JJ Maybank said something about Rafe hurting Sarah,” you whisper. “And now it’s killing me not knowing what he did. I confronted Rafe. I told him that if we were getting married -if we were having a baby- he couldn’t keep hiding this. I told him I didn’t want to marry a stranger.”

Your voice breaks fully this time.

“And he suggested we call off the wedding. He’d rather call off our own wedding than tell me the truth-” You stop when your breath catches and your chest aches from holding everything in for too long.

Becca is out of her chair within seconds. She wraps an arm around you and pulls you in, rubbing your shoulder firmly as she leans against the counter with you.

“Forget what I said,” she murmurs. “Something is seriously wrong with him. Whatever he did… it had to be pretty bad if he can’t even tell you. Especially now.”

You swallow hard, tears spilling freely. “Or he never wanted to marry me in the first place.”

It’s quiet after that. Heavy. True in a way you wish it wasn’t. Becca doesn’t try to deny it. She just holds you tighter, because she knows you’re finally saying the thoughts you were too scared to think earlier.

—

You wake up to the sour burn of nausea climbing your throat. It’s becoming routine - the kind of morning sickness that drags you out of bed before you’re even fully conscious- but today it lands harder. Maybe because your stomach already hurts for an entirely different reason.

The bathroom light is too bright.

Your reflection looks tired.

Your hands shake a little on the edge of the sink.

You rinse your mouth, splash cold water on your face, and try to steady your breathing. Behind you, down the hall, you hear the creak of the mattress as Rafe wakes up. For a moment, you freeze.

You don’t know how to look at him. Not after last night. Not after he stood in the living room and said, voice quiet and trembling, “Maybe we should… call the wedding off.”

He didn’t yell.

You didn’t either.

And somehow that made it worse.

You step out of the bathroom, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Rafe is sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

He looks up when he hears you. His eyes flicker - worry? guilt? something he won’t name - and then smooth over like he’s forcing himself neutral.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough from sleep.

“Hey.” You pretend your heart doesn’t crack at the sound of his.

He stands, stretching like it’s any other day, like he didn’t suggest unraveling your entire future less than twelve hours ago.

“You sick again?” he asks, stepping closer but stopping just short of touching you.

You nod. “It’s fine.”

It’s not.

None of this is fine.

But pretending feels easier than facing whatever last night meant.

He nods once - relieved you’re not pressing the issue, relieved you’re not asking him if he really meant it or why he said it - and rubs a hand over his face.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” he says, already moving toward the bathroom.

“Okay.”

He pauses in the doorway, glancing back at you. “Do you want toast or something? I can make you something before I go in.”

Before I go in. Work.

He’s talking about work on Valentine’s Day without even realizing what day it is.

“Valentine’s Day,” you murmur under your breath, mostly to yourself.

Rafe freezes mid-step.

You see it hit him - the realization - and then you see the second thing hit him: the resignation. The quiet, heavy belief that today is already too fragile for him to try fixing.

He swallows. “Right. I… forgot.”

You give him a small smile that feels like a paper cut. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he says, barely audible. “But… I don’t want to make today worse.”

Worse. As in: already bad.

Your chest squeezes painfully. “Rafe, we don’t have to-”

“I’m not trying to be cold,” he says quickly, eyes trained on the floor. “I just… holidays aren’t really my thing. You know that.”

You nod. You do know. He’s rarely ever cared about days on the calendar  - but you thought things with you would be different. You thought being pregnant, being engaged, planning a life together would change something.

“I didn’t expect anything,” you lie.

Rafe looks up at you for just a moment, as if checking whether he should believe you. You’re both too careful, too gentle, too terrified of stepping on the wrong emotional landmine.

Finally, he nods. “Okay.”

He disappears into the bathroom, the sound of the shower starting up a second later. You sit on the edge of the bed, hands pressed over your stomach.

The baby is still tiny, quiet, not yet making its presence known. But you feel the weight of it anyway - the responsibility, the future, the fear. And for the first time since seeing those two pink lines…

You feel alone.

Not abandoned.

Not unloved.

Just alone.

Like you and Rafe are standing on opposite sides of a cracked bridge, each pretending they don’t see the fracture widening beneath your feet.

-

You settle on spending Galentine’s Day with Becca and Marie - two girls who are still pretending to be cordial, even though everyone can feel the thin film of tension between them. They don’t seem to mind, though. Maybe because they’re both single. Maybe because you showed up looking like someone whose heart is sitting too high in her chest and too low in her stomach.

And honestly?

You’re grateful for the distraction.

You’re not sure what happened between Mario and Marie - they had that “cute but chaotic” energy that usually burns hot and quick. Kind of like you and Rafe, but without the engagement ring and a fetus involved.

You spend the entire morning telling Marie everything you’d already told Becca: the coldness, the silence, the way Rafe has been… different since everything happened. Since he said maybe we should call the wedding off.

Marie, being Marie, gasps dramatically and tosses a strawberry into her mimosa before taking a sip.

“You should break up with him,” she says matter-of-factly. “And the three of us will buy a private island and raise Baby Cameron in peace. Sun, sand, and no men except the bartender we hire who wears linen and calls us ‘goddess.’”

You laugh - because it’s ridiculous, because it’s Marie - but the moment the laughter fades, your chest tightens.

You would miss him. God, you would miss him in ways you don’t even want to name. Despite everything he puts you through, despite how wrong it feels right now, you know you can’t imagine your life without him. You hate that. You hate how deeply hooked your heart is, how even when you’re angry or hurt, a part of you still reaches for him in the dark.

“Earth to Y/N.” Marie’s sing-songy voice cuts clean through your spiraling.

You blink, turning your head toward her. “What?”

She points her fork at you like she’s conducting an orchestra. “I asked if you already finished your wedding dress. Because I’m pretty sure you can just sell that design to Vivienne Westwood or Mirror Palais and buy us our island.”

Becca nods. “Seriously. It’s obscene how talented you are.”

You smile- small, tight, the kind you can control. “I’m not selling it.”

“Ooh,” Marie says, wiggling her eyebrows, “sentimental.”

You take a breath and try to keep your voice light. “If… Rafe and I don’t get married…” The words scrape coming out, sharper than you expected. “I’ll just save it for my first real wedding.”

You shrug with forced nonchalance, sitting up straighter, as if posture can make grief prettier.

Becca and Marie exchange a look - one that tries not to be pitying, tries not to be worried - and for a second, you hate that they saw the crack.

But it’s Valentine’s Day. And for your first one being with him, you’re spending it imagining a future that doesn’t have Rafe Cameron in it. And the thought of that alone nearly knocks the air out of you.

The rest of the day is spent drifting through boutique racks and overpriced cafés, gossiping about nothing and everything. You try to let yourself enjoy it - the buzz of girl talk, the relief of not being in that quiet house with Rafe, the chaos that always follows Marie like perfume.

But you feel the looks. People your family knows. Old money women with soft lips and sharper eyes. Teenagers who recognize the Cameron name before they recognize you. Store managers who pretend not to stare.

It’s subtle - a fleeting raise of eyebrows, a pointed glance at your bare ring finger, an unspoken question hanging in the air: Why isn’t she with her fiancé today?

You feel it, even if no one says a word. And God. You’re not excited to tell your mother any of this. But she’ll find out sooner or later. She always does. She promised to “back off,” but you know she still texts Eve behind your back - little updates, quick questions, “just checking the schedule.”

Eve. You forgot about her.A knot twists in your stomach. You still don’t know what to do with her. With the wedding. With the fact that Rafe said maybe we should call it off in that soft, terrifying voice.

It wasn’t a declaration.

It wasn’t even anger.

It was… a suggestion. A retreat. A quiet surrender because you wouldn’t stop asking about his past.

And now the not-knowing gnaws at you.

“Do you guys want to go get drunk or what?” Marie announces, hands on her hips like she’s about to rally troops.

“I want to, real bad, but-” You point to your belly.

Marie gasps like she’s been caught in a scandal and claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, I forgot about you. Sorry, queen.” She places a dramatic palm on your stomach.

You laugh. “You act like I’m incapable of having fun now.”

“You are,” Becca says dryly. “And also, why is everyone team girl? I want you to have a boy, Y/N.”

“I don’t care what I get,” you say. “I’ll be happy with whatever-” Your phone buzzes in your hand. The name on the screen makes your whole body go still. Rafe.

Both girls groan in perfect stereo from either side of you.

You shush them quickly, forcing a smile you don’t quite feel as you swipe to answer. “Hello?”

You give him your most deadpan voice - flat enough to make a point, not hostile enough to pick a fight.

“Hey…” His voice is low, tentative. You hear a breathy laugh - the kind he gives when he’s nervous or trying to make something sound casual. “I finished some work early. I, uh-” another small laugh, “-I reserved a table for us tonight. Some restaurant. I was wondering if you wanted to go?”

You blink. He’s asking you. Rafe Cameron, who used to book reservations without a second thought, who used to just say “Be ready by seven,” is asking.

Like you are the one who pulled away. Like you are the one reconsidering your life together. Like he didn’t forget Valentine’s Day existed this morning. How did he get a table so fast?

“Um… sure,” you say slowly. “I’ll be home soon to get ready.”

You hang up before he can say anything else.

Marie stares at you. “Girl, don’t tell me-”

“Yes,” you say instantly.

“Y/N…” she whispers, and for once, Marie sounds guilty - like she wants to tell you that you’re being stupid, but she won’t, because she loves you too much to say it out loud.

“If you’re going to criticize me-” you start.

“We’re not,” she cuts in quickly. “We’re just…” She exhales a long, defeated sigh and then pulls you into a hug. “Be… okay,” she murmurs into your shoulder.

You don’t realize she’s hugging you until her arms tighten. When you look over her shoulder, Becca is still standing a few feet away - arms crossed, expression unreadable, lips pressed into a straight line. You don’t dare meet her eyes.  You already know what you’ll see in them: love, worry, and the silent fear that this dinner is just another step toward breaking your own heart.

-

When you pull into the driveway, your heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts. You have no idea why. You’ve driven up this exact driveway a thousand times. You’ve walked into this house confidently. You’ve kissed him hello without thinking. You’ve fit into this life so easily, so naturally, that coming home never felt like a question.

But tonight? Tonight feels different.

You unlock the door and step inside, and the first thing that hits you is the light.

Soft. Flickering. Warm.

Candles - dozens of them - line the entryway, tucked between roses that trail along the hallway in messy, imperfect clusters. Not florist-perfect arrangements. Not staged. Just… effort. Human, clumsy, earnest effort.

Your heart swells with every step you take. And aches a little too.

“Rafe?” you murmur, your voice catching somewhere between nervous and hopeful.

“In here,” he calls back from the sunroom - a space you never really occupy, a space that never felt like yours.

You follow the candlelit path, glancing over your shoulder repeatedly to make sure you don’t knock anything over with your bag or coat. You’re so distracted by the ridiculous romance of it that you almost forget to look ahead.

“Rafe, these candles are kind of a fire haza-”

Your sentence dies in your throat. Because you finally see him. He’s stretched out on the floor of the sunroom, propped up on one elbow, wearing a black long-sleeve shirt and jeans that make him look painfully soft, painfully earnest, painfully familiar. In front of him is an entire picnic laid out on a blanket: 

A fruit platter.

A cheese board with all your favorites.

Mini sandwiches you know he spent way too long assembling.

Sparkling water.

Chocolate-covered strawberries.

Two wine glasses - one empty, one filled with something nonalcoholic for you. It’s beautiful. It’s thoughtful. It’s the most Rafe Cameron thing he’s done in weeks. And God, it hits you all at once. It’s the Rafe Cameron you got to know and you hate that you can’t tell if this is really him or not.

Part of you feels relief - a slow, warm loosening in your chest. He’s showing up. He’s trying. He’s doing the little things, the soft things, the things you once fell in love with. But the other part of you…You don’t know what to do with it. How are you supposed to react? How do you smile and melt and breathe normally when the same man who set all this up is the one who told you last night that maybe the wedding wasn’t a good idea? Are you supposed to be happy? Grateful? Touched? Or are you supposed to wonder why the man who suggested walking away from you is now trying to romance you back into pretending nothing happened?

Your emotions twist in your stomach, tangled and heavy.

He looks up at you with a small, hopeful smile - like he’s terrified you won’t like it, like he’s terrified you won’t like him.

You stand there in the doorway with your heartbeat rattling in your chest, realizing that love shouldn’t feel this complicated.

And yet with Rafe… It always is.

“Rafe…” you breathe, sinking onto your knees across from him. The blanket is soft under you, and for a moment, your eyes catch on a perfect, glistening grape in the corner of the spread. It looks too juicy to resist - and honestly, you need ten seconds of something easy. So you reach out, pluck it from the vine, and pop it into your mouth.

Rafe smirks, smug in a quiet, boyish way - like he takes your eating as proof that his plan is working.

You refuse to give him that satisfaction. Small talk. Thank him. Go to bed. That was the plan.

You swallow. “What is this?”

“I- Valentine’s Day.” He says it so simply, so casually, like it explains everything.

You pause. “You didn’t have to-”

“Of course I did.” He plucks a grape of his own and tosses it into his mouth. “You’re my fiancée.”

Your heart stutters. What in the world is happening? Whose reality is he living in? You take a slow breath, gathering the courage you’d been rehearsing all day. The question forms in your mouth like a bruise.

“…Do you want me to be?” His face twists in confusion, eyebrows knitting. You push forward before he can deflect. “I mean- you just suggested we call off our wedding, Rafe. I can’t ignore that. I need to know where you stand because I can’t just pretend we didn’t have a screaming match a few days ago and that was the conclusion you jumped to.”

His eyes drop to the floor, shoulders sagging. “I-” He rubs a hand over his face, frustration bleeding out of him. “I think we started moving too fast.”

Despite all your internal preparation, something inside you cracks. Just slightly. Just enough to hurt. But he isn’t done.

“I mean…it hasn’t even been a full year since we started hooking up. Not even dating, like- officially. And now we’re doing wine tastings like that’s something normal people do.”

He gestures vaguely at the food spread, still avoiding eye contact, as if looking at you might make everything real.

Your throat tightens. “I wasn’t the one who proposed.”

“I know,” he murmurs quickly, painfully. “I know. That’s on me. I just think we need- maybe- another year to feel things out. To really understand-”

A hollow laugh escapes you. Bitter, sharp. A tear falls before you even feel it forming. You wipe it with your sleeve, embarrassed.

“Yes. Because everything runs on Rafe Cameron’s time.” The sarcasm spills out before you can stop it.

“Y/N-” His sigh is heavy and tired. “Don’t start, okay? I’m trying to figure out something that works for both of us.”

“Yes,” you snap. “You get another year of not having to be a husband, and I get another year of not knowing who you actually are.”

You’re already standing, the blanket wrinkling beneath you. Reflexively, you turn toward the hallway and begin blowing out candles, one by one, your movements clipped and angry.

Rafe scrambles to his feet, following you. “That’s not why I said it. I’m not trying to bail- I just- every time we try to settle into something normal, it falls apart. Something blows up. If we get married now, it’s going to get old fast and one or both of us will end up wanting a divorce.”

You spin around sharply, the flame of the last candle flickering beside you. Your voice is steady- deadly steady.

“I’ll be a single mom. You can be the hottest bachelor on the OBX again. Boom. You get exactly what you’ve been acting like you want.”

The words hang between you - heavy, painful, honest. And for the first time since you walked through the door… Rafe looks scared.

“I don’t want to break up with you. You’re not fucking listening to me.” His voice cracks open, the last edges of restraint snapping as he follows you into the kitchen. The frustration isn’t simmering anymore- it’s spilling, hot and sharp, every step behind you echoing with it.

“I’m fully aware of what you’re trying to say.” You whip around, your words slicing the space between you. “Rafe, I’m not a fucking idiot. But since you’re Rafe Cameron, go ahead- enlighten me.” Your voice rises, bitter and trembling. “Because apparently no one else knows anything. Rafe Cameron is the only one who understands. Rafe Cameron is the most important person on earth-” You slam your palm onto the counter hard enough to sting.

He flinches. “Calm down. I never said any of that—”

“Oh, you don’t have to say it.” Your laugh is humorless, scraped raw. 

“Everything-everything- is on your time. We started hooking up on your time. We started dating on your time. When we broke up the first time? That was because you didn’t want to support me.” Your voice cracks but you push through it. “When you proposed, you didn’t even consider if I wanted it. You did it because you decided it was time.”

Your throat tightens, but every word feels like truth you’ve been holding underwater for months.

“And now our wedding? It’s not happening because of you. Our relationship? All of it? Every direction, every decision- all you. Everything is always you.”

You straighten, shoulders rolling back, a steadiness you don’t actually feel rising inside you. You step toward him. He’s breathing hard, jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours like he’s bracing for impact.

“So here’s what we’re going to do.” Your voice drops, quiet but lethal. “I’m going to give you the power to make one last decision.”

His nostrils flare.

“If you want to cancel our wedding on the date we have set, then be my guest.” Your chin lifts. “But if you cancel it- we’re done. Not ‘let’s slow down.’ Not ‘let’s take a break.’ Not fiancé, not boyfriend, nothing.” Your stomach lurches; the words are out before you can stop them. You regret them instantly. But they’re out in the open now, living things. “If you don’t want this, then you don’t get me. At all.”

He shakes his head, scoffing in disbelief. “You’re giving me an ultimatum?”

“I’m not,” you shoot back. “I’m giving you what you seem to want- more control. One more thing to decide, since you’ve practically been running this entire relationship from day one.”

You step back, turning to leave before your voice can break. And then-

A crack that sounds like a gunshot.

You jump as the drywall beside you caves inward, plaster dust floating in the air like ash. Rafe’s fist is buried in the wall, his chest rising and falling in ragged, furious breaths.

For a moment, the only sound in the entire house is the faint crumble of drywall hitting the floor.

Then he pulls his hand back, knuckles bleeding, and looks at you like he’s seeing you -and losing you- all in the same breath.

And you have no idea which one of you is going to walk away first.

-----------