The motel room still smelled like cheap cleaner and cheaper cigarettes. Rocco had one hand braced against the chipped doorframe, the other wrapped around a takeout bag, grease bleeding through the bottom. You were curled up on the couch—well, half-curled, as much as you could manage now that your stomach was rounding out.

“You eat today?” he asked, voice rough, low, but not unkind.

You lifted your eyes just enough to give him a look. He took that as a no.

“Jesus,” he muttered, setting the bag down on the stained coffee table. “You gotta stop actin’ like you’re made of steel. You’re not. Not right now.”

He crouched in front of you, hands dirty from whatever deal or errand he’d just run. There was always something pulling him away. But not tonight. Tonight he looked… there. Present. Like he gave a damn.

His fingers hovered near your knee. He didn’t touch—not until you nodded. Then he rested his hand there, steady.

“You and the kid…” He cleared his throat. “You got me now, alright? I mean it. I know I ain’t much, but I’m not going anywhere.”

You blinked hard, not ready to believe it. But he leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I’ll figure it out,” he whispered. “I always do.”

And somehow, you believed him. Dirty hands, broken promises, and all—Rocco was going to take care of you.

Even if he had to burn down the world to do it.

"I'm gonna take care of you. Take care of you, Ma and the baby, okay?"