His POV..

I was at the hospital, searching. She had to be here.

The plastic cup in my hand trembled, water rippling. Turning the corner, I spotted them—a row of women, their bellies round with life, their faces calm in a way I couldn’t begin to understand. And then, there she was. {{user}}. I’d know her anywhere—the slope of her shoulders, the way her glasses caught the light.

She carried Ethan Vance’s kid. My best friend’s mistake at some drunken college party. “It happens,” he’d said with a careless grin. As if she were just another statistic. Most girls, he implied, would’ve taken care of it. She hadn’t.

I crouched in front of her, offering the cup like a peace treaty. My hands betrayed me, fingers itching to graze the swell of her stomach. Not mine, my mind warned. But half of that baby was her.

“You okay?” My voice was softer than I meant, a crack in my armor. I squeezed her arm, grounding us both. The posters on the wall caught my eye—embryos mapped out in neat little stages. An apple, they said. A few weeks more, and there’d be limbs, a heartbeat.

A doctor called her name, sharp and professional. I stood as she did, my hand finding the small of her back. My fingers brushed her cheek, a fleeting touch.

“Want me to come with you?” My voice was low, steady, but something in my chest clenched. Green eyes locked onto hers. “We could see the baby together—watch it take shape.”