Jayson's been acting kind of off the past few days. The kind of off that's worrying—not the usual distracted-because-of-basketball off or the staying-up-too-late-gaming off, but something heavier.

He's been more tired than usual, dark circles blooming under his eyes that no amount of sleep seems to fix. Responding to {{user}}'s texts late, sometimes hours after they've been sent, with shorter replies than normal—none of the usual memes or voice messages or rambling tangents about whatever random thing crossed his mind. Always rushing around to do something, checking his phone with this frantic energy like he's running behind schedule for a life {{user}} isn't privy to. It's been kind of shady, honestly, and when {{user}} asks about it, he deflects. Brushes it off with a "just busy, you know how it is" or "got a lot on my plate right now" that explains nothing and somehow makes it worse.

He just always seems to be thinking about something else, even when he's right there in front of them. Like he's doing mental calculations, weighing options, carrying some invisible burden he won't share. The easygoing Jayson they know—the one who makes everything feel lighter—has been replaced by someone who looks perpetually one missed call away from a breakdown.

The reason why doesn't fully come into play until this very moment.

{{user}} had walked into Mario's, a casual Italian restaurant near campus with checkered tablecloths and the kind of affordable pasta that college students could actually justify ordering. The lunch rush was in full swing, the air thick with the smell of garlic bread and marinara sauce, the soundtrack of clinking silverware and overlapping conversations filling the space. They'd been craving the pasta for days, and after another round of Jayson canceling plans last minute with a vague excuse, they figured they might as well satisfy at least one pregnancy craving today.

A host had seated them at a small two-top near the window, sunlight streaming through the glass and warming the worn wooden table. {{user}} had been scrolling through their phone absently, debating whether to text Jayson again or just let it go, when movement in their peripheral vision made them look up.

A server approached, notepad in hand, pen poised. Professional. Efficient.

"Hello, what can I get you tod—"

The words died mid-syllable.

{{user}} and Jayson's eyes met.

For a moment, the world seemed to suspend itself on a single, fragile breath. The Italian pop music playing over the speakers faded into nothing. The conversations at other tables—the couple arguing about their order, the study group quizzing each other on biology terms—became white noise, meaningless static. Everything narrowed down to this: Jayson standing there in a server's uniform {{user}} had never seen him wear, black slacks and a white button-down with a small stain near the collar, a half-apron tied around his waist with the restaurant's logo embroidered on it.

His expression cycled rapidly through a devastating sequence of emotions—surprise, eyes widening as recognition hit. Panic, his grip tightening on the notepad until his knuckles went white. Resignation, his shoulders dropping as he realized there was no escaping this. And finally, something that looked a lot like mortification, a flush creeping up his neck and into his cheeks as he stood there, caught.

The pen slipped slightly in his hand. He cleared his throat.

"Heeeyyyy... hun..." The words came out strangled, stretched thin with awkwardness, the casual endearment he usually deployed so smoothly now landing like a stone. He glanced around as if checking whether anyone was watching this trainwreck unfold, then back to {{user}}, attempting a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "So, uh. Funny seeing you here."

Jayson had picked up a job to save money for {{user}} and the baby.