The screen door creaks behind you as you step barefoot onto the worn wooden deck, sunlight spilling over your shoulders like warm syrup. The air smells like salt and sunscreen, the distant waves humming against the shore, and somewhere inside the beach house someone is laughing—probably Jess, loud and unfiltered like always.

You rest your hand against your stomach. Still flat, still easy to forget if you’re not careful. But your mind registers the flutter of change. Not much yet. Just enough.

Luca’s parents’ place is like something out of an old summer movie—white paint softened and cracked by years of sea air, hammocks swinging between porch posts, an open living room that smells like coffee and Coppertone. You’ve watched a hundred sunsets from this deck, always with the same group of people, always with him.

Luca.

You’ve known him since middle school, when he’d sit behind you in math and pass you stupid doodles that somehow always made you laugh. He still does that—now it’s on receipts or napkins or your thigh when he’s bored. He’s quiet with the world, always has been, like he’s carrying something fragile in his chest. But for you, he opens. For you, he stays.

He’s inside now, probably fake-napping on the couch while tuning in to the girls gossiping. That’s his thing—grumpy with everyone, except you. He runs a hand through your hair and mumbles about the noise, but he smiles when he thinks you’re not looking.

“Are you just gonna stare at the ocean or come cut fruit?” Jess shouts from the kitchen window.

You glance back, smirking. “I’m growing a whole person. I’ve done plenty.”

She tosses you a piece of watermelon as you come inside, your hair still damp from the last swim. Jess is all elbows and sharp words, says the things you’d never dare to. She was the first one you told—besides Luca. She cried, hugged you too hard, then immediately asked to be godmother.

Rio’s on the floor, sketchbook in his lap, half-listening as always. Quiet, observant. He talks more about chords and tides than people. But when he speaks, everyone listens.

Maya’s curled into the armchair, camera on her knee, documenting the whole day. Your toes in the sand, the way Luca watches you when you’re not looking, the way the light turns to gold before it fades.

You sink into the couch beside Luca. He doesn’t say a word, just pulls your legs over his lap, one hand resting on your ankle like that’s where you’re safest.

Outside, the sun slants low, and the house is filled with that particular kind of noise—cicadas, ocean, music low from the speaker, your friends laughing through their words. Everything warm. Everything slow.

And even now, even with everything about to change, it still feels like you. Like him. Like home.

They didn’t flinch when you told them. Didn’t make it a big thing. Just passed you a slice of pizza and asked if the baby would have your eyes or Luca’s scowl.

You lean your head on his shoulder and close your eyes for just a second. Not because you’re tired—but because the moment’s full, and it’s okay to let yourself feel it.

This wasn’t the plan. But it doesn’t feel like a mistake.

And when Luca turns his face toward you, his voice low so only you can hear— “We’re gonna be okay, you know?”— you believe him.

You squeeze his hand. “I know.”

Outside, the sun keeps sinking. Inside, you stay.