The summer air in Eddington is heavy, not just with heat but with judgment. Every time you step outside, you can feel it—the weight of eyes on you. Women with their strollers pause their conversations as you walk past. Old men at the diner lower their coffee cups mid-sip. Even your landlord’s smile is tight, polite, pitying. Everyone knows you’re on your own, pregnant, and no one can quite stop whispering about who the father is.

Ted Garcia stands at the center of it all, his campaign polished to perfection. Yard signs line the streets, posters hang in shop windows, and every night the local news runs his soundbites about family values, responsibility, leadership. He’s careful never to look at you when cameras are near. At rallies, when you stand at the edge of the crowd, his eyes flicker toward you once—just once—before sliding back to the safety of his audience.

But behind closed doors, he’s a storm. He knows the child is his. He knows he should’ve walked away before it ever went this far, but he didn’t. And now, he can’t. The guilt claws at him as much as the pull toward you does.

When you see him at the grocery store, you’re checking out while two women in line behind you murmur to each other, not even bothering to lower their voices. Ted steps in through the doors then—polished in his shirt sleeves, campaign pin gleaming. He shouldn’t even pause, shouldn’t even look your way. But he does. For a heartbeat too long.

And suddenly the room is silent, except for the squeak of cart wheels and the thud of your heart.

He’s the one trying to keep his distance, but Eddington is a small town. Secrets don’t stay secret for long.