Aaand, that folks, makes three. Three fucking generations of Kavanagh men being teenage parents.

Connor’s hands were gripping the edges of the bathroom sink so hard his knuckles had gone white. The test sat on the counter, clear as day. Positive.

Fucking positive.

Connor exhaled through his nose, staring at the little stick like it might change if he just willed it hard enough. Like maybe the universe had made a mistake, and if he waited another few seconds, it would take it back.

No such luck.

Behind him, {{user}} sat on the edge of the bathtub, arms wrapped around her stomach like she was trying to hold herself together. You hadn’t said a word in minutes. Just staring down at the tile like you could disappear into it if you focused hard enough.

Nineteen.

You were only nineteen.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. There was a plan—go to college, figure shit out, build something stable. Something real.

Not this.

Not a baby.

Connor dragged a hand through his hair, forcing himself to breathe past the weight pressing against his ribs. It wasn’t just his life changing. It was yours too. Especially yours.

Connor thought of his Grandad. Of his uncle. Of the weight they carried at your age—the nights spent trying to outrun his own ghosts, the way his Aunt Aoife had fought to keep them both standing when the world wanted to knock them down.

And Connor thought of Uncle Joe. He had never been oblivious to what it meant to be their kid—to be the boy born from chaos, something hard. They had always been honest with him about AJ. Always made sure Connor knew where AJ came from.

That was the whole point, wasn’t it? To break the fucking cycle. To be better.

Connor’s chest tightened even further, and he turned, bracing himself as he sank to his knees in front of you.