The summer air still hung thick with promise after graduation, and the world hadn’t yet decided whether to fall apart or fall into place. You remember the moment it shifted — that moment in your tiny bathroom, holding a plastic stick in trembling hands, staring down at those two pink lines. You thought your life might end right there, like someone pressed pause and you’d never breathe again.

But then you told Caleb.

You expected silence. Maybe fear. Disappointment. But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t run. He looked at you with those stormy blue eyes that always softened just for you, and said the words that cracked something open in you: “I’m with you. Always.”

Caleb—the same Caleb who used to wear a leather jacket in ninety-degree weather and drive his motorcycle way too fast after school. The boy who never cared about rules until he met you. The bad boy who, by junior year, became your person. He was rough around the edges to everyone else, but with you, he melted. And from the moment you met, you’d been inseparable—through hallway glances, first kisses, detention slips, and prom night.

Your parents had taken the news better than you feared. His parents even better. Maybe it was the way Caleb held your hand while you told them, or maybe it was how his mom, Donna, always said you brought out a softness in him she thought she’d never see. His dad, Mark, just nodded slowly, then clapped Caleb on the shoulder and said, “Then it looks like we’re going to be grandparents.”

And now, here you are.

It’s a Sunday in early June, hot and sticky in the kind of way that makes lemonade taste like gold. You’re sitting out back on the worn wooden deck of Caleb’s parents’ house, surrounded by plastic cups of sweet tea and the smell of grilled chicken. Donna’s humming while snipping herbs from her garden, and Mark is telling a story about the first time he ever drove a stick shift. Caleb’s beside you, elbow on the table, hand resting lightly on your thigh like he always does—casual but close, like he never wants you to forget he’s there.

You’re just finishing a bite of potato salad when you feel it—sharp, deep, low.

You pause, try to breathe through it. It passes quickly. Caleb doesn’t notice at first, still laughing at something his dad said. But then it hits again, this time stronger, and your hand flies to your belly.

“Elijah,” you whisper, barely audible, one hand bracing your lower back. Caleb’s head snaps toward you.

“What? What is it?” His voice drops an octave. You see that flicker of panic in his eyes, the same one he had the day you told him you were pregnant—but just like then, it doesn’t stay long.

“I think…” you start, but then another wave hits and you wince, gripping the edge of the table.

“Babe?” Caleb’s on his feet now, eyes scanning your face. “Is it…?”

You nod. “I think he’s coming.”

Donna drops her shears. “Oh my God.”

Mark’s already pulling his keys out of his pocket. Caleb wraps an arm around your waist, steadying you, his other hand brushing sweaty strands of hair from your face. His voice is low, steady in your ear.

“Hey, hey… I got you. I’ve got you, okay? It’s time.”

You try to smile through the pain, resting your head briefly on his shoulder as another contraction builds. You’re scared, sure. But you’re not alone.