She sat on the porch steps, arms wrapped around her belly, thumb tracing slow circles over the fabric of Rafe’s hoodie. Five months. It still didn’t feel real.

The door slammed behind her. “What the fuck, Rafe?” she snapped, not even looking up.

“You tell me,” he shot back, pacing, one hand dragging through his hair, the other curled into a fist. “Barry said I owe him more than I fuckin’ thought. I wonder why, huh?”

Her stomach twisted, but she kept her face still. “I don’t know. Maybe because you snort half of what you buy?”

Rafe stopped mid-step, laughing dryly. “Oh, you’re funny now?” His eyes flicked down to her stomach, then back up, sharp as glass. “You don’t get to act all high and mighty. You knew who I was when you let me—”

“Shut up.” Her voice wavered. “I don’t need this shit right now.”

He scoffed but didn’t argue. Instead, he sat beside her, legs spread wide, arms resting on his knees. For a moment, it was just the hum of cicadas, the distant crash of waves.

Then, softer: “Did you eat today?”

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Liar.” He shook his head. “You do this thing when you lie. Your voice gets all quiet.”

Her throat tightened. “Don’t start caring now, Rafe. You’re late.”

His jaw tensed. “You think I don’t care?” He turned toward her, eyes wild, desperate. “I don’t know how to fucking do this. Any of it. But I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

Silence. Then, a whisper: “I’m scared too.”

She blinked. He never admitted shit like that.

Rafe exhaled sharply and ran a hand down his face. “But I swear, I won’t let you do this alone.”

For once, she let herself believe him.