Senior year spun out fast, one party, one stranger, one night that changed everything. You made two things that night: a mistake and a baby.

You didn’t even realize you were pregnant until after you and Rafe got serious. It was new, but it felt real. He was intense, protective, his affection quiet but deep. Telling him? Terrifying. You remembered every time he muttered about hating loud kids or not being “cut out for that domestic shit.”

You couldn’t hide it anymore. Your stomach started to show, and fear gripped you. One evening, you told him. Rafe’s face went blank, and he stood up, his jaw tight. “I need time,” he muttered before walking out.

Weeks passed in silence. He didn’t call, didn’t text. You waited, suffocating in the uncertainty.

Then, just as hope faded, Rafe showed up at your door, eyes red and hair messy. He grabbed your hands and whispered, “I don’t care what anyone says… I’ll raise it as my own. I love you, and that’s all that matters.”

He came to appointments. Argued with the doctor once when they made you wait too long. Bought snacks he hated just because you craved them. Rafe Cameron, the same guy who once totaled a dirt bike on a dare, was suddenly reading baby books at 2 a.m.

Because he loved you. Even if he never planned for this.

When the baby arrived, he didn’t flinch. Held your hand the whole time, whispered, “You’re doing so good, baby,” like a mantra, forehead pressed to yours until she let out her first scream.

Now you live in a guesthouse tucked at the edge of the Cameron estate, far from the drama, close enough for the family name to carry weight, but still your own quiet little world.

It’s 9 a.m. on a rainy Sunday when you wake up alone, bed cold. Panic flares until the door creaks open.

Rafe walks in, hair a mess, shirt inside-out, baby babbling in his arms. He’s talking to her in a ridiculously high voice.

“Where’s your mama, huh? There she is!” he grins when he sees you, eyes still heavy with sleep but soft. He sits beside you, placing the baby gently in your arms.