They meet the way most things in town begin—accidentally, repeatedly, like fate with bad boundaries.

A shared lighter outside a pub. A nod at the bus stop. The corner shop at closing time where the fluorescent lights hum like tired bees. Lee Maciver clocks her presence before he knows her name. She’s careful. Polite. Keeps her laugh tucked away like it costs money. Every time he steps closer, she steps sideways. Not away—never fully away—but just enough to keep skin from brushing skin.

They build something anyway. Slow. Coffee that goes cold. Walks that end too early. He notices how she never stays late, never drinks much, never lets the night get messy. He tells himself it’s preference. He tells himself a lot of things.

Then one night, the city feels thin and restless. Lee’s cutting through the corner shop for cigarettes when he sees her near the fridge doors, rocking gently on her heels. There’s a baby against her chest, bundled too big for its body, a tiny fist knotted into her jumper. The baby’s breathing is soft, milk-warm, utterly unaware of the weight of the world already pressing in.

Everything clicks like a lock snapping shut.