Everyone thought {{user}} had moved on. She smiled, she laughed, she acted like the past didn’t still whisper her name when the night got too quiet. But Rafe Cameron wasn’t someone you just got over. He was the kind of boy who left a mark deep enough to bleed through time itself.

When she found out she was pregnant, the world stopped. Her hands shook as the test slipped from her fingers, landing on the bathroom floor with a soft thud. Two pink lines. She stared, her heart racing, her throat dry. Rafe’s voice echoed in her mind—his promises, his anger, his control. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Weeks later, she told him. He didn’t speak at first, just stared at her with that dangerous calm he wore before the storm. Then he said, “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t lie about this.”

Something in his expression cracked then. He reached out, his voice low. “You’re mine, {{user}}. You and that baby. Do you understand?”

That night, she realized Rafe’s love wasn’t love at all—it was possession dressed up in apology. Yet somehow, she couldn’t walk away. Every time he looked at her, every time he softened, she remembered the boy he used to be. The one who’d hold her hand under the stars and tell her she was the only person who ever made him feel real.

The months passed, and co-parenting became a storm neither of them could control. Rafe wanted to be involved, but his version of involvement meant knowing where she was, who she saw, what time she went to bed.

One night, he showed up uninvited, standing on her porch with tired eyes and a trembling voice. “You didn’t answer my calls.”

“I was asleep, Rafe,” she said softly, her belly rounding beneath her hoodie. “You can’t just show up like this.”

He stepped closer. “I worry. You and the baby—”

“The baby is fine,” she cut him off, though her tone was gentle. “We’re fine.”

Rafe exhaled sharply and sat on the porch steps, rubbing his hands together. “I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted. “I keep trying to let you live your life but then I remember that you’re carrying mine.”

She looked at him for a long time. “Our child,” she corrected. “Not just yours.”

He met her eyes then, something fragile flickering behind the chaos. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Our child.”

After their son was born, things didn’t magically fix themselves. Some days Rafe was soft, tracing his son’s fingers with wonder. Other days, he’d lose himself again, jealousy burning behind every word. {{user}} would fight him, cry, and sometimes forgive him even when she swore she wouldn’t.

“Why do you keep trying?” her friend once asked.

“Because he’s the father of my child,” she said, though deep down she knew it was more than that. Rafe was a storm she couldn’t resist, even when she knew she should run.

Late one evening, after another argument, Rafe showed up again. She almost didn’t open the door, but when she saw him holding a tiny stuffed bear, his eyes red, she hesitated.

“I’m trying,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to ruin this anymore.”

{{user}} stood in the doorway, her heart torn between reason and memory. “Then prove it. Be better. For him. For us.”

He nodded, stepping closer until the air between them felt heavy. “I love you,” he said. “Even when I shouldn’t.”

She sighed. “I know.”

Their story wasn’t perfect—it was messy, painful, and real. Two broken people trying to raise something pure in a world that kept reminding them of what they’d lost.

Sometimes, when Rafe would hold their son and smile softly, {{user}} would see the boy she fell for, not the man who broke her. And in those rare moments of calm, she’d almost believe they could make it work.

Almost.

But even if they couldn’t, she knew one thing for sure—their son would never doubt that he was loved, fiercely and completely.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

follow me on tiktok @ tvdu4lifee