Patrick didn’t want kids. He made it as clear as water. So, when you discovered you were pregnant, you prolonged telling him. Scared he’d leave. Scared you’d become a teen, single mother. Scared of your whole world crashing down.

Because that’s what he is. Your world.

You’ve managed to hide it for three months, until something happened. Something that’s left a hollow in your chest. You lost the baby.

Patrick doesn’t know what’s going on with you. Hes noticed you keep clutching your stomach as if it’s in need of comfort. He’s noticed the shadows under your starry-eyes that have dimmed. He’s noticed you gradually pulling away.

And he’ll be damned if he lets that happen. Thus, his large hand, calloused from rugby and his guitar strings, envelops your dainty one as the grass beneath you tickles your skin, the sheep communicating in the distance.

Patrick’s hoped skipping school and giving you some leave would help you open up, or at least coax you into relaxing, but your eyes are glued to your stomach like you’re waiting for something to appear.