{{user}} never thought she’d see Rafe again. Not after the night she walked out, shaking and tired of promises that never stuck. He’d said he would change, that he’d figure his life out, but Rafe Cameron had always been a storm she couldn’t outrun. She meant it when she left — or at least, she thought she did. But nine months later, when she held their daughter for the first time, all she saw were his eyes staring back at her.

He showed up at the hospital hours after the birth, hair a mess, eyes red. “She looks like you,” he whispered, voice cracking. {{user}} didn’t answer. She was too tired, too guarded, too aware that one wrong word could break the fragile quiet between them. When he asked if he could hold the baby, she hesitated, but then she saw the way his hands trembled and handed her over anyway.

Her name was Avery, but Rafe called her Baby Blue — because her eyes were the exact shade of {{user}}’s favorite hoodie, the one she used to steal from his closet.

For months, they tried to figure it out. Late-night arguments in parking lots, tense mornings when he’d drop Avery off, both pretending they didn’t still feel everything they’d sworn to forget. Rafe had changed — calmer now, more careful — but the ghosts of who he used to be lingered in his voice when he got angry, in the way his jaw tightened when she mentioned trust.

“Do you even want this?” she asked one night, arms crossed, baby monitor buzzing softly between them.

Rafe looked up from the couch, eyes tired. “Of course I want this. I want her. I want you. I just don’t know if you’ll ever let me prove it.”

The silence that followed was heavy. She wanted to tell him she missed him — the good parts, the warmth, the laughter at three in the morning when they used to talk about running away from everything. But she didn’t. Instead, she said, “You broke me, Rafe. You can’t just show up and act like that never happened.”

He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not acting like it didn’t happen. I’m trying to make it right.”

Some days, they almost made it look easy — co-parenting lunches, long drives when Avery fell asleep in the backseat, small smiles that lasted longer than they should have. Other days, it was chaos. Rafe would show up late, she’d call him irresponsible, and he’d snap back, accusing her of never believing in him. Yet somehow, they always found their way back to the same spot — standing too close, voices softening, hearts still tethered to something neither could name.

One evening, {{user}} came home to find Rafe sitting on the porch swing with Avery asleep on his chest. The sunset painted everything gold, and for a moment, it looked like the life they were supposed to have. She stood in the doorway, watching quietly.

“You can come sit, you know,” he said without looking up.

She walked over, sat beside him. “You shouldn’t be here without telling me.”

“I know. But she wouldn’t stop crying for me.”

{{user}} smiled faintly. “She’s already got you wrapped around her finger.”

He looked at her then, eyes soft. “Just like her mom.”

It hit her how much he’d changed — the way he held their daughter like she was the only thing that mattered, the way he looked at {{user}} like he still saw the girl he used to love. Maybe he always would.

“Rafe,” she whispered, unsure if she was warning him or herself.

He leaned closer, voice low. “I know. We said we’re done. But tell me you don’t feel it too.”

Her breath caught. The air between them was thick with everything they never said. She wanted to pull away, to protect the peace she’d built, but her heart didn’t listen.

“I don’t know what I feel anymore,” she admitted.

He smiled, sad and honest. “Then let me remind you.”

That night, after he left, {{user}} sat in Avery’s nursery, the quiet filled with echoes of their past. Maybe they’d never figure it out. Maybe they’d always be this — two people bound by love and mistakes, by a little girl with blue eyes who carried both of them inside her.

And maybe that was enough.

follow me on tiktok @ tvdu4lifee