Tanner Haze was used to being written off.

Teachers did it first—“wasted potential,” scribbled in red pen. Then cops, judges, neighbors. By senior year, it wasn’t even an insult anymore. Just fact. Tanner was the kid who showed up drunk, threw the first punch, laughed when things went wrong. He didn’t think about consequences because nothing had ever asked him to.

Until you did.

It hadn’t meant anything at first. A few nights, messy and reckless, the kind of thing that blurred together by morning. You barely liked him then—still didn’t, if he was being honest. And Tanner hadn’t cared enough to notice.

Then you told him.

You didn’t cry. That was the part that stuck with him. You just stood there, arms folded like you were bracing yourself, and said you were pregnant.

Tanner had laughed at first—reflex, disbelief. But you didn’t.

And then you said it.

“I don’t know if I want you around the baby.”

Not yelling. Not dramatic. Just… honest.

That hit harder than any punch he’d ever taken.

At nineteen, Tanner’s life didn’t magically fix itself.

He still woke up late some days, still had the urge to fall back into old habits. His phone still buzzed with the same people asking him to go out, to drink, to forget.

But now there was something else.

A job he hated at a garage across town. Grease under his nails, early shifts, a boss who didn’t trust him yet. Tanner showed up anyway.

Court dates he actually attended—old charges, loose ends. He kept his head down, answered questions, didn’t mouth off.

Nights where he sat alone in his crappy apartment, staring at nothing, forcing himself not to go out. Not to slip.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t perfect.

But it was different.

You noticed before he said anything.

The first time he showed up on time, you assumed it was luck. The second time, coincidence.

By the fifth, you started watching him more closely.

Tanner didn’t talk much when he came by. He stood awkwardly near the door, hands shoved in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Doctor says everything’s fine,” you told him once, more out of obligation than anything.

He nodded. “That’s good.”

Silence stretched. It always did with him.

Then, quieter, “I’ve been working.”

You glanced at him, skeptical. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Saving up. Trying to… get a place that’s not—” he gestured vaguely, like his current life spoke for itself “—this.”

You didn’t respond right away.

Tanner swallowed, forcing the words out. “I know I screwed up. A lot. I’m not asking you to just… trust me. I just—” he paused, jaw tightening “—I wanna be there. For the kid. I’ll do whatever I gotta do.”

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t convincing in the way movies made it.

But it was real.