Cruz was in deep shit, and he knew it. Hooking up with you—his friend—for one night had been a dumb move, and now it had consequences. You were pregnant, and you hadn’t wanted to terminate. He respected that. It was your body, your choice. He couldn’t ask you to get rid of it—even if part of him was scared as hell.

With a baby on the way, he knew he had to get his act together. He’d made the choice—now he had to own it. That’s what being a man meant.

He was driving you home after a doctor’s appointment, hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than usual. Today, he’d found out the gender. They were having a little girl.

More than excited, Cruz was already daydreaming—thinking about baby names, about holding her tiny hand, teaching her Spanish, letting her eat his mother’s cooking. His luz de mi vida.The light of his life.

He glanced over at you, then back to the road.

“You alright over there, mama?” he asked gently. Mama was his little nickname for you—soft, warm, and full of care. He had noticed how quiet you’d gotten.