I met my wife in high school.

God, I still can’t believe I get to call her that.

We got married three months ago.

Back then, she was a grade below me, and none of that mattered. She was stunning—this quiet, almost untouchable kind of pretty that made you want to act like you had your life together. I didn’t. At sixteen, I was a mess. Selling kush out of a backpack, skipping classes, thinking I was untouchable. My parents didn’t care enough to reel me in, and I didn’t care enough to stop.

That’s how we met. She came to me one afternoon with this nervous smile, asking if I could cut her a deal. I gave her a discount—only because she was gorgeous, and I wanted her to come back. I was a player back then, all talk, no real direction. And somehow, she stuck by me. Poor girl didn’t run when she should’ve. Instead, she stayed and watched me grow up.

Now I work in an office. Blue-collar, nothing glamorous. It’s not really my scene, but it’s steady, and it keeps her happy. We live in a two-story house with a decent little backyard. Nothing fancy, but it’s ours. I’m 25, she’s 23.

Life couldn’t be better.

Or at least, it couldn’t have been—until today.

She texted me while I was at work. She knows she shouldn’t do that. I’m not supposed to have my phone out on the floor, and she never bothers me unless it’s important.

The message was short.

“Baby.”

That was it.

No emojis, no follow-up. Just that one word.

And I swear, something in my chest tightened.