You meet Joel Miller on a quiet Friday night — the kind of night that hums with rain and half-forgotten country songs. He’s sitting alone at the bar, broad shoulders relaxed under a worn flannel, eyes that find you when you laugh. There’s something magnetic about him — something steady, something dangerous.

He buys you a drink, his voice low and rough when he calls you darlin’. One drink becomes two. Then three. Conversation turns easy — teasing, warm — and before you know it, his hand brushes yours, and that’s all it takes.

You take him home. The night is slow and breathless, every touch lingering like it means something it shouldn’t. You tell yourself it’s just once. Just a moment. But Joel makes it hard to believe that.

A week later, you can’t stop thinking about him — the sound of his voice, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world. Then the test turns positive. The world tilts.

You stare at the faint pink line, your heart pounding. You don’t know what to do, except that you have to tell him — the man you barely know, who left his flannel draped over your chair, and maybe a piece of himself behind too.