The rain had been coming down sideways all afternoon, the kind of Scottish rain that soaked through jackets and patience alike. Kerr was out in the back garden, half under the lean-to he’d never finished fixing, cigarette burning down between his fingers even though he’d sworn off them weeks ago. Bad habits didn’t leave quietly. They lingered. Waited for the right weather.

Inside, Isla was stacking mismatched blocks on the living room floor, humming to herself. Two years old and already louder than his thoughts. Every time a block toppled, she laughed like the world was generous and kind. Kerr watched her through the smudged glass door, heart doing that stupid ache thing it had learned recently.

{{user}} stood at the kitchen sink, hands braced on the counter, shoulders tight. The day had been heavy—appointments, numbers, quiet confirmations that couldn’t be taken back. Child number two wasn’t a theory anymore. It was real. It was coming. It lived in the space between their ribs and the way they moved slower now, more careful.

Kerr crushed the cigarette into the damp earth, jaw tight. The urge had hit him hard out there—sharp, familiar, ugly. The thought that one night off the rails wouldn’t ruin everything. He hated how convincing it sounded. He hated that becoming a father again didn’t magically erase the craving, didn’t rewrite his wiring. It just raised the stakes.