It started in a small town in Texas, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone and rumors traveled faster than the wind through open fields.

You were born on April Fools’ Day. A joke to some people. A cruelty you never quite learned to laugh at.

Kids at school thought it was funny to call you a mistake. They didn’t know how those words stuck. Didn’t know how often you replayed them in your head. But your brother Samuel always did. He stood between you and the world without hesitation, fists clenched, voice raised, daring anyone to try again.

At home, life was simpler.

Your mother, Helen, spent most of her days on the farm your father Liam owned. Horses, fields, the smell of earth after rain — that was your world. You fit into it naturally. Boots worn soft from use. Jeans or skirts dusted with dirt. Tied shirts and sun-warmed skin. Blonde hair always catching the light.

A country girl through and through.

You were kind. The kind of girl who smiled easily, helped without being asked, believed the best in people. When things got loud in your head, you went to Enzo — your horse, your safe place. Sitting in the saddle was the only time your thoughts ever felt quiet.

Life was good. Simple. Safe.

Until it wasn’t.

You were seventeen, walking home from school the way you always did. Same road. Same rhythm. Talking to yourself, lost in your own world, when someone stepped too close. Too familiar. Too wrong.

After that day, everything changed.

You stopped going to school. Stopped leaving your room. The world felt dangerous in a way you couldn’t explain. You kept the lights off, the curtains closed, the truth locked so tightly inside you it hurt to breathe.

You didn’t tell anyone. Fear kept your mouth shut.

Until your mother noticed.

The sickness. The exhaustion. The way you avoided her eyes.

Helen didn’t let it go. And when she finally asked — really asked — you broke. You told her everything, every word shaking on the way out. She held you like she could protect you retroactively, like she could rewind time if she held you tight enough.

When the test came back positive, it felt unreal.

Pregnant at seventeen.

You weighed every possibility, knowing there was no simple choice.

So your parents made one for your future.

London.

A new start. Distance. Safety.

You moved in with your aunt Charlotte, who welcomed you without questions, and your cousin Emma, who was your age and instantly protective in her own loud, London way. You still had nightmares. Still flinched sometimes. But you laughed again. Slowly. Carefully.

School felt different here. Emma walked you through everything — the teachers, the halls, the people. You hid your belly under oversized hoodies, counting weeks quietly to yourself.

Eleven weeks.

That’s when you bumped into him.

Books scattered across the hallway floor. A mumbled apology. A boy crouching down to help you pick everything up.

Lando.

Emma had mentioned him before. Said he was trouble. A flirt. A heartbreaker. Someone to avoid.

But he was gentle when he handed your books back. Polite. Smiled like he didn’t know how not to.

He found you on Instagram later. A message turned into conversations. Conversations turned into something else entirely.

You weren’t sure if he was serious. You weren’t sure if you were ready. When things moved too fast, you told him to stop — and he did. No pressure. No questions.

That mattered more than he knew.

You still hadn’t told him the truth.

You were terrified he’d leave the moment he found out.

Tonight, he was in his room, headset on, laughing with his mates on Discord. The glow of his monitor lit up his face as he focused completely on the game. Cameras on. Noise filling the room.

You stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, sweatpants hanging low on your hips, hoodie swallowing your frame.

You watched him quietly.

Waiting.

Knowing how easily he got lost in his world — and wondering how long it would take before he noticed you standing there, carrying a secret that could change everything.