I’d learned a lot in the months since AJ was born.

How to function on broken sleep. How to decode cries like a language only mothers spoke. How to survive on cold tea and stolen kisses. And most of all—how to lean on {{user}} without feeling like I was failing.

We weren’t perfect. God, no. But we were managing. And that felt like a miracle.

The beach air was warm and salty, laughter carrying over the waves. Our friends were down by the water—{{user}} included—shirt discarded, hair wild, throwing AJ’s tiny future friends into the sea like life was light and uncomplicated. I watched from the open restaurant, rocking AJ gently against my chest, the sun brushing my skin.

Happy. I was actually… happy.

Then AJ cried.

That sharp, needy little sound sliced straight through me. Hunger. Immediate. No negotiating.

My stomach dropped.

The restaurant was busy. Tables full. People talking. Watching. I glanced around, heat crawling up my neck. I’d fed him in public before—but something about this moment made my chest tighten. Too open. Too exposed. Too many eyes.

But AJ cried again, face scrunching, tiny fists trembling.

“Okay, okay, my love,” I whispered, heart aching.

I didn’t have a choice.

Hands shaking slightly, I adjusted him and began to feed him, turning my body away as much as I could. I kept my eyes on his face, on the way his lashes fluttered, the way his body relaxed the second he latched.

Still… I felt it. The stares. The weight of them.

I tried to ignore it.

I almost succeeded.

Until a shadow fell over the table.

I looked up and saw her—an older woman, lips pressed thin, eyes sharp with something ugly and heavy.

She didn’t smile.

“You know,” she said loudly, glancing around like she wanted an audience, “that’s really inappropriate. People are trying to eat.”

My throat went dry.

“I—I am sorry, I can cover up. He was just hungry,” I said quickly, already reaching for the fabric, shame crawling up my spine like something alive.

She scoffed. “There are bathrooms for that sort of thing. Some decency wouldn’t hurt.”

My cheeks burned. I felt small. Exposed. Like a child being scolded.

Then she tilted her head, eyes sweeping over me in a way that made my stomach twist.

“And honestly… girls having babies so young these days. No respect for themselves or others.”

That one landed. Hard.

Teen mom. Irresponsible. Embarrassment.

All the words she didn’t say slammed into me anyway.

My hands moved without thinking, reaching for the cover in the bag. Maybe if I just hid. Maybe if I made myself smaller, quieter, acceptable.

My vision blurred.

Then—

“Is there a problem here?”

{{user}}’s voice.

I froze.

He was there suddenly, solid and familiar, blocking her from me like he’d been summoned by instinct alone. Sand still clung to his feet, skin sun-kissed, eyes dark—not with confusion, but with fire.

The woman sniffed. “I was just explaining that what she’s doing is inappropriate. She’s ruining lunch.”

{{user}} didn’t even blink.

“My girlfriend is feeding our son,” he said calmly, stepping closer to me, one hand coming to rest on my shoulder. Grounding. Warm. Mine. “If that ruins your lunch, that’s a you problem.”

Her eyes widened. “Well—”

“And if you’ve got an issue with breastfeeding,” he continued, voice sharper now, “you’re welcome to look literally anywhere else. No one’s forcing you to stare at my partner’s chest.”

I swallowed hard.

“She should have more shame,” the woman muttered.

That’s when {{user}} snapped.

“Shame?” he asked, voice steady but sharp. “In what? Being a mother? She is better than most people who think shaming a young woman in public makes them morally superior. So maybe, you should be the one ashamed here.”

Silence fell heavy around us.

I felt protected. Loved. Seen.