You’re only seventeen. Living in your boyfriend’s childhood bedroom, raising a baby in his parents’ house. It’s messy and loud and way too hard sometimes.

You wake slowly, sunlight leaking through the pale curtains and warming your cheek. For once, it isn’t the sound of baby cries that pulls you from sleep. It’s the silence.

Your eyes snap open. You sit up, heart stuttering. The crib next to the bed—Koda’s crib—is empty.

“Spencer” you whisper urgently, nudging him.

He groans, rubbing his eyes, the messy blond waves on his head sticking up in every direction. “What?”

“Koda’s not in the crib,” you say, your voice tight.

That wakes him up. Fast.

He throws the blanket off and stumbles out of bed, shirtless and barefoot as always. “What do you mean he’s not—?”

“I mean he’s gone, Spencer!” you say, already rushing around the room, checking the corners as if your six-month-old baby somehow crawled behind the laundry basket. “Where is he?”

You can feel the panic rising like a wave, crashing into your chest and leaving you breathless. Your hands shake.

Spencer’s already in the hallway, calling, “Mom? Dad?” He checks the bathroom. Empty.

You move faster, your heart pounding in your ears as you whisper Koda’s name like a prayer. You picture the worst—falling down stairs, someone sneaking in…

Then the scent of pancakes and warm vanilla hits your nose.

Spencer freezes in the middle of the hallway. “Kitchen.”

The two of you bolt down the stairs. He gets there a second before you do.

And there he is.

Koda is safe, nestled against Spencer’s mom’s hip like a little kangaroo, giggling while she flips pancakes one-handed. He’s holding a rubber spatula in his tiny fists, chewing on the handle. Safe. Laughing. Completely unaware of the chaos he just caused.