You sat across from Rafe in his truck, hands curled into fists on your lap, heart pounding so hard it hurt. His jaw was clenched, blue eyes dark with frustration as he tried to process what you’d just said.

I can’t do this anymore, Rafe. You’re not the person I thought you were.

You could see the storm building in him, the barely restrained anger that always lingered beneath the surface. “You’re seriously leaving me?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “After everything?” But you didn’t flinch this time.

You just reached for the door handle, voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “Yeah, Rafe. I am.”

Two weeks passed, and you tried to convince yourself you were free. No more sleepless nights wondering when he’d snap, no more pretending his love wasn’t laced with something dangerous.

But the nausea hit out of nowhere, first thing in the morning, relentless and unforgiving.

Then the exhaustion, the dizziness—you knew before you even took the test. The little pink lines confirmed what you already feared.

You sat on the cold bathroom floor, phone in hand, debating the one thing you swore you’d never do again: call Rafe.

Your finger hovered over his name, memories of him flashing in your mind—his hands on your waist, his rough voice whispering sweet nothings before they turned into threats.

He wasn’t meant to be a father. Not to my baby. Not like this But as much as you hated him, as much as you wanted to erase every trace of him from your life, there was no denying the truth. He was a part of you now. A part of this. And he had no idea.