The storm of the century rolled into New Castle, Connecticut, with a dramatic bang. This storm happened to be one of the worst you’d ever seen — since the fire on Hawthorne Island, an accident you’d hoped to have long forgotten by now.

This particular night was the night that your baby decided to make her appearance. Clearly, she wanted to send a message to the world. Hurricane-strength winds knocked out power lines and blew out windows. Your apartment lost electricity — and that was when your water broke. There was no way you could drive, not like this. Streets were flooding. Emergency services was a no-go — no signal.

With every fibre in you, you tried to not panic. Calm down, {{user}}. Just stay calm. First-time babies never came that quickly.

Every contraction proved otherwise. Pain hit you like a full-force bulldozer. It only ever got worse.

Suddenly, there he was. The man who haunted your every waking moment. Your epic seaside love. The man you’d nursed back to health — after he’d killed your sister on that island three years ago.

“Harry,” you gritted out, voice somewhere lost in between resentment and hope. The fake name. The name given to him when all of his memories were forgotten. How you looked at him without only ever thinking of Toby, the boy who’d killed your sister. “Toby.”

“I’ve got you, {{user}}.” He lifted you off the ground, and your head lolled against his chest as he walked over to your bedroom. The next few contractions that hit were the worst yet, however no screams left your lips — no screaming, just as he hadn’t screamed as you’d nursed him through agony all those years ago.

No longer you could distinguish what was real and what was in your head anymore. You felt yourself teetering off of the edge of consciousness, but his voice brought you back — low, steady. “I wrote to you.”

“I hate you.” you bit out. Yet the words came out tender, like a love song.

“I know.” He pushed your knees up, put two pillows beneath your head, pressed sweat-drenched hair back from your face.