Rafe Cameron sat on the hood of his truck, a cigarette hanging from his fingers. His mind was a blur, scattered with fragments of thoughts that didn’t seem to make sense. Since Nala came into the picture, his life had only gotten messier. A baby. His baby. He never wanted any of this—he was too fucked up to be a father.

The girl—fuck, what was her name again?—was sitting on the porch, rocking Nala. She was the perfect image of a mother. Calm. Composed. Rafe was a mess, an unholy mess, and it ate at him.

Nala was four months old now. Four months he’d barely been around. Every time he saw her, guilt gnawed at him, like he didn’t deserve to even look at her. He was too much of a fucking disaster.

He’d been drunk the night before, like always. The girl wasn’t happy when he woke up, though. She never was. She was always disappointed.

“Rafe, we need to talk,” she said from the porch, her voice firm.

Rafe didn’t respond. Instead, he took another drag from his cigarette.

“You think I can do this alone?” she yelled. “I’m trying to raise our daughter, and you’re just fucking… gone.”

He tossed the cigarette, trying to ignore her. But the guilt was unbearable. He turned to her, his voice low. “I’m not good enough. I’m not the dad she deserves.”

She stood, holding Nala in her arms. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just need to try.”

“I don’t know how,” he muttered, ashamed. “I’m not… I’m not the guy she needs.”

Her eyes softened, and she stepped closer. “I didn’t ask for any of this either. But I’m doing it. For her. For us.”

Rafe stared at her, his chest tight. He couldn’t find the words. He wasn’t the fucking man she wanted, the father Nala deserved. But maybe… maybe he could try. Maybe he could show up.

“I’ll try,” he said, the words feeling heavy on his tongue.

It wasn’t a promise. But it was something.