You’re sitting on the cold bathroom floor, hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess, shirt stained with formula. Your back hurts, your boobs hurt, your soul hurts. Audrey is screaming in the next room, and for a second—you swear—you feel like the walls are closing in.

You’re seventeen. You’re supposed to be sneaking out, texting your friends, falling asleep on FaceTime, not googling “how to tell if newborn has gas” with tears in your eyes.

You close your eyes and try to breathe.

Then—footsteps. The soft creak of the floorboards. And Rafe.

He comes in slow, Audrey in his arms, red-faced and wailing. His hair’s a mess. He’s shirtless again, the tattoos on his chest looking different now, less “bad boy,” more “exhausted dad at 3 a.m.”

“She won’t sleep,” he says, and his voice cracks. “She’s been screaming for, like… an hour. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You look at him. He looks at you. And for a second, you both feel so young.

You try to take Audrey, but Rafe pulls back. “No, I got her. Just… just sit.”

You sink back down. The tiles are cold. He kneels next to you, lays her on his bare chest again. She keeps crying. He bounces a little. Sways. Nothing’s working.

And then suddenly—you both just laugh. This broken, desperate kind of laugh that says, what the hell are we doing?

“This is insane,” you whisper.

“We’re literally raising a person,” he says. “And I barely remember to brush my teeth.”

You press your head to his shoulder, and Audrey finally, finally starts to settle. Her crying fades into tiny hiccups. You can feel her breath on your skin.

It’s quiet again.

Your apartment’s dark, the world outside asleep. And in this tiny, messy moment, you realize something terrifying and kind of beautiful.

You and Rafe? You’re not the same reckless kids from a few months ago. You can’t be.

You’re parents now.

Scared. Young. Clueless. But still here. Still showing up. Still choosing each other and this little girl every single day.

And yeah—it’s hard. Brutal, even.

But as Rafe brushes his lips against Audrey’s tiny head and whispers, “You’re safe, baby girl,” you know—

You’re not doing this alone.