The rain hasn’t let up for hours. It sheets down the windshield in blurred streaks, washing out the world beyond it. You’re parked at the edge of the woods, tires sunk half an inch into mud, the car engine long since cut to save on gas. It’s cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones, into the fabric of your clothes, into your jaw that won’t stop clenching.

You shift in the passenger seat, cradling your son tighter. He’s asleep, tucked against your chest like something borrowed from heaven. Too quiet. Too small. Born three weeks early, ribs like paper, lungs too soft. Every breath he takes still feels like a miracle.

You wrap your coat around him even though it leaves your arms bare. Doesn’t matter. He needs it more than you do. That’s how it’s been since the second those two pink lines showed up on a test you took in a public bathroom, hands shaking, trying not to throw up.

That was barely a year ago. Seventeen. A junior in high school with a spot on the volleyball team and a decent shot at college if you played your cards right. Jesse had just gotten a job working with his uncle—cutting trees out in the backwoods to help cover his mom’s medical bills. Life was hard, but it was still full of maybe.

Then you told him.

You thought he’d run. You half-hoped he would. But Jesse just blinked at you with those stupid soft eyes and said, “Okay. Then we figure it out.” Like it was that simple.

It wasn’t.

Your mom packed your bags before your dad even got home. You remember standing on the porch, backpack over one shoulder, and your whole body trembling—not from fear, but from rage. They were supposed to love you. They said they would. But it turns out love had terms and conditions. And your pregnancy? Void.

Jesse moved you into his aunt’s garage for a while, but she started locking up the fridge. You bounced around from friend’s couches to motels to that shelter downtown until he scraped together enough money to rent the trailer. One bedroom. Mold in the shower. Drafts like ghosts sliding under every door. But it had walls. A lock. A roof.

Sometimes that’s enough.

Now you’re here every day, watching him from the car as he works until his arms are limp and his hands blistered. Today’s worse, though. Because his leg is bandaged from a chainsaw slip two days ago, and he should be anywhere but here. But the bills don’t stop for bruises. The baby formula doesn’t wait for paychecks.

And you... you don’t know what you are anymore. You haven’t laughed in weeks. You haven’t written anything in your journal. You haven’t even cried lately. You just sit, hold your baby, and wonder if this is the rest of your life.

You flinch when the car door finally creaks open. Rain surges in like a warning. And then Jesse climbs in, soaked to the skin, jeans heavy with mud, his flannel clinging to his chest. He’s shaking from the cold, but he doesn’t complain. He doesn’t ask for a towel. His eyes lock on the baby, still bundled in your coat.

He leans in gently, brushing a fingertip along your son’s cheek like he’s touching a dream he can’t quite believe is real.

Then he looks at you.

There’s been distance between you. Unspoken things. Nights where you sleep facing away from each other. Days when everything either of you says sounds like an accusation. You used to dream about living in New York—studying journalism, maybe writing a book. Jesse used to talk about building his own carpentry shop, something real with his name on the front door.

Those dreams feel like old clothes now—tight and full of holes.

But the way he’s looking at you now... it's the same way he did when you were fifteen and he kissed you for the first time behind the gym. Like you’re the only thing he sees. The only thing that matters.

“You aren’t too cold, are you?” he asks, his voice hoarse from yelling over chainsaws all morning.

He leans forward and kisses your forehead—slow and lingering—hoping his lips might carry warmth he doesn’t have to give.

“I’ll get off in an hour,” he murmurs. “Then we can go home. Okay?”