You’re standing in your childhood bathroom — pale-blue tiles, the humming light above the mirror — but now there’s a white stick on the counter with two pink lines that changed everything.

You grip the sink with both hands. Your knees feel weak. Nineteen. You’re nineteen, and you’re pregnant.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You had plans — college, study nights, parties with your best friends. Freedom. Not morning sickness. Not a baby. And definitely not doing it alone.

Your ex made sure of that.

You almost laugh at the irony. He always hated how close you were to Tyler. “No girl should be laughing with another man like that,” he’d say, voice sharp, arms crossed. At first, you thought he was just protective. You thought jealousy meant love.

You were wrong.

Now he’s gone. Vanished the moment you told him. Like all the red flags your brother warned you about finally screaming in your face. You feel stupid. Ashamed. You cut off the people who actually cared. You pushed away your brother. You let Tyler — sweet, infuriating Tyler — slip away because some boy told you it was wrong.

But you and Tyler… you’d always had something. Since you were fourteen and he was the impossibly cool seventeen-year-old your brother brought home from football practice. You weren’t supposed to like him, not like that. But he was different. He’d sit with you in the kitchen while you baked, always stealing dough and making a mess. He used to bring you daisies “just because Wednesdays suck.” You weren’t his girlfriend, but he made you feel like you mattered.

He made you feel seen.

Even now, even after everything, he still does.

A knock on your bedroom door — soft, hesitant.

You freeze. You hadn’t told anyone. Not your brother. Not your parents.

But somehow… Tyler knew.

You open the door, and there he is. Tall as ever, hair damp from the rain, wearing that same look you remember — soft, careful, steady.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just looks at you. His gaze drops for a second to your belly, not yet showing, but somehow, he sees everything.

“I’m not gonna ask what happened,” he says quietly. “But I know.”

You try to speak, but the words knot in your throat.

Tyler steps inside — into your room, into the chaos: piles of unread books, crumpled tissues, unopened college letters.

“I heard from your brother you weren’t doing great,” he says. “Then I ran into your ex at a party. He wasn’t subtle about bragging he got out of something ‘messy.’”

You bite your lip. Hard.

“I was abandoned while pregnant,” you whisper. “I don’t know how to tell my family.”

His brow pulls together, not in pity — in something stronger.

“You don’t have to say that,” he replies, steady. “Say I’m the father.”

You blink. “Tyler—”

“I mean it,” he says, stepping closer, placing a hand over yours like he’s anchoring you. “I’ll go on TV after a game and say it. I’ll kick your ex in the shin. I’ll cook dinner. I’ll go to appointments. I’ll register the baby as mine. I’ll build the crib.”

You laugh — watery, confused. “But… you’re my brother’s best friend.”

“And I’ve known you forever,” he says gently. “I know your heart. I hated watching you disappear last year. I didn’t know exactly what he was doing, but I knew something was wrong. I should’ve said more.”

You shake your head. “You tried. You both did.”

He’s quiet for a beat, then, “I never stopped caring. That’s the thing.”

You look at him then — really look. He’s older now, broader, famous in ways you still don’t quite believe. But to you, he’s still the boy who brought daisies and offered to teach you how to juggle oranges.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he says, voice honest to the bone. “Just let me be there. Let me be what he wasn’t.”