They say people like Rafe Cameron don’t change, but {{user}} wanted to believe he could. Maybe that was her first mistake. The night she found out she was pregnant, he was gone before the sun came up. No call, no text, not even a half-hearted apology. Just silence.

For months, {{user}} carried the weight of it all—every appointment, every restless night, every time she caught her reflection and wondered how she’d ended up here. She built a quiet life in that small Outer Banks apartment, trying to forget his voice. But forgetting Rafe Cameron was like trying to stop the tide.

When he came back, it was raining. She opened the door and there he was—hood up, soaked to the bone, eyes tired but clear. “I’m sober,” he said, voice rough. “And I’m not running this time.”

{{user}} didn’t move. Her hand hovered over the door, torn between slamming it shut and pulling him inside. “You don’t get to say that like it fixes everything,” she whispered.

He nodded. “I know. But I’m trying to be better. For you. For the baby.”

The baby. Those words felt heavier than the ocean. {{user}} crossed her arms, fighting the sting behind her eyes. “You left me when I needed you most. Do you know how scared I was?”

“I was scared too,” Rafe admitted, stepping closer. “I didn’t know how to love something that depended on me. I barely knew how to love myself.”

For the first time, {{user}} saw something different in him—not the reckless boy who’d burned through life like gasoline, but a man standing in the ashes trying to rebuild. She didn’t trust it yet, but she couldn’t deny that his voice shook when he looked at her belly.

Weeks passed. He showed up to appointments, built a crib in the corner of her room, and stayed sober. They fought, of course. Rafe had a temper, and {{user}} had walls higher than the Cut bridge. But there were soft moments too—like when he’d rest his hand on her stomach and whisper, “Hey little one, it’s your dad,” as if saying it out loud would make it real.

One night, {{user}} woke to find him sitting by the window, staring at the ocean. “Do you ever think we’re too broken for this?” she asked quietly.

He looked over his shoulder, eyes glinting under the moonlight. “Maybe. But broken things can still protect what they love.”

The words stuck with her. He wasn’t perfect, not even close, but he was trying in a way she hadn’t seen before. When their daughter was born, {{user}} held her and saw a softness in Rafe’s eyes that made her believe, just for a moment, that redemption was real.

Still, there were days she doubted him. When he’d disappear for a few hours, when his hands shook, when the old Rafe flickered beneath the surface. But he always came back. Always apologized. Always reminded her that change wasn’t a straight line.

One evening, as the sun set over the marsh, {{user}} sat on the porch with the baby in her arms. Rafe leaned against the railing, watching them. “You ever think about what could’ve happened if I never came back?” he asked.

“I used to,” she said. “Now I just think about how much you still have to prove.”

He smiled, a faint one, but real. “I’ll spend the rest of my life doing that if I have to.”

And she believed him—not because he was perfect, but because he showed up when it mattered most.

Love wasn’t about fixing each other. It was about choosing to stay, even when the cracks showed. And as {{user}} looked at Rafe holding their daughter, she realized maybe some halos don’t shine. Some are cracked, dented, scarred—but still, somehow, holy.

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