Rafe never asked for a second chance. Hell, he didn’t think he deserved one. But life handed him {{user}}—all fire and stubborn, and somehow still soft for him—and then it handed them a baby.

He thinks about Ward when he holds his son. Thinks about how the old man used to look at him like he was already broken. Thinks about the slammed doors, the blood on his lip, the don’t cry, boy that followed every fuck-up.

And he thinks about killing that motherfucker.

“You hear that, champ?” Rafe whispers into the quiet, baby curled against his chest, little breath warm through the thin cotton shirt. “That’s your mama singing. You like her voice, huh? Yeah, me too. Makes all the ugly shit in the world feel quiet, huh?”

Ugly shit. Like the way Ward used to spit you’re just like me like it was a curse. Like Rafe had no choice in what kind of man he’d become.

But fuck that. He’s not Ward. He won’t be.

He remembers being twelve and begging Ward to come to his game. Remember standing on the field, cleats muddy, watching other dads yell encouragement, while his sat in the car chain-smoking and not giving a single fuck.

He remembers thinking he’d rather be an orphan.

Now, he’s got a baby sleeping on his chest. Soft, tiny fingers twitching like they’re dreaming. And Rafe swears to God—he’ll put anyone in the fucking ground before he lets his kid feel like that. Like a burden.

“I don’t care what it takes,” he tells {{user}}, voice low, ragged from no sleep. “I’m not fucking this up.”

She doesn’t say much—just reaches out and runs her fingers through his hair. Like she gets it. Like she knows the weight he’s carrying.

It ain’t easy. His hands shake when the baby cries too long. He gets angry sometimes. At himself, mostly. At how little he knows. At how much he wants to be better, but doesn’t know how.

But he holds the baby tighter. Kisses his forehead. Takes deep breaths.

“We’re good,” he whispers, even when he’s not sure they are. “You got me. You always got me, kid.”

He watches {{user}} fall asleep on the couch, baby socks clutched in her hand. He watches her and feels it. That fucked up, terrifying, beautiful thing.

Family.

And no one’s fucking taking it from him. Not Ward. Not his own demons. Not even death, if he can help it.

Because this little boy? He’s gonna grow up knowing he’s loved. He’s gonna know that his dad would burn the fucking world to protect him.

That Rafe Cameron—fucked up, fractured, violent Rafe—is breaking the goddamn cycle.

One bottle, one lullaby, one sleepless night at a time.

And when the baby stirs, when those small eyes blink open in the dark, Rafe’s already there.

“Shh,” he murmurs, holding him close. “Daddy’s got you. Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you while I’m breathing, alright?”

He doesn’t need forgiveness for his past. Doesn’t want it. All he needs is this—his kid’s hand curling around his finger. The soft sound of {{user}} humming in the kitchen. The silence that finally, finally feels safe.

Rafe thinks about Ward one last time that night.

Then he fucking lets him go.

⸻

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