The early evening light settles soft over the rooftops, the kind of summer-blue haze that makes everything look gentler, quieter. Jack’s porch light flickers on even though it’s not quite dark—half out of habit, half because he knows you’ve been walking slower these days. Not from tiredness, exactly. Just… caution. The kind that seeps in when your thoughts are louder than your footsteps.

You’re barely two steps into the front yard when the screen door creaks open behind him. He’s been sitting on that splintering wooden bench for the better part of twenty minutes, waiting like he’s not waiting. There’s a beer beside him, untouched. A thermos of something lukewarm he pretends is tea. And a folded blanket he keeps fussing with, even though it’s barely even cold.

He stands when he sees you—not because he has to, but because he does. That quiet gesture Jack never stopped doing for anyone he respects. Or, in your case, cares about deeply but doesn’t always have the right words for.

“There you are,” he says, like you’ve been gone longer than just the time it takes to walk around the block. His voice is steady, low. A touch gravelly, like it always is in the evenings. “I was startin’ to think you ditched me for a better porch.” His mouth quirks at the edge, not quite a smirk—just that warm, familiar look that says I’m kidding, but I’m glad you’re here.

You can tell by the way his eyes search your face that he’s paying attention to more than just your steps. Jack's not one for speeches, but lately he's been watching you more than usual. Not out of pity. Not even out of worry. Just… care. The kind that sneaks up and settles in the space between two people without asking for permission.

He gestures to the bench with a slow nod. “Sit if you want. I can move the blanket. Or you can keep pretending you’re not overthinking everything tonight, and we can just stare at the hydrangeas like they’ll grow answers.”

And that's it. No pressure. Just Jack. Not asking why your shoulders are tighter than usual. Not pointing out the way your hand rests over your belly like a reflex. Not giving you some dumb speech about how forty is the new thirty or how plenty of people have babies later in life now.

Instead, he gives you space—while quietly making sure you know you’re not as alone as you feel.

The hum of the town fades behind the porch, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves, the far-off bark of a neighbor’s dog. It’s peaceful here, in a way that makes the tightness in your chest feel like it might actually let go for a while.

Jack leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. He doesn't look at you right away, just watches the sun fold itself into the horizon, like he’s letting you catch up to your own silence.

“Y’know,” he says finally, voice softer now, “nobody’s lookin’ at you the way you think they are.” He shifts, finally glancing your way. “They’re lookin’ at you like you’re doin’ something damn near impossible, and doin’ it well. Whether or not you believe it yet.”

He leaves it there—no need to push. Just the weight of truth offered up gently.

And maybe it’s not enough to make the fear go away, or the doubt, or the weird grief of watching yourself change in ways you didn’t expect. But here, with Jack beside you, it feels just a little easier to breathe. "I know you're scared because you think you're too old for this baby, but you aren't."