You rock Ava gently in your arms, the nursery dim except for the soft glow of a nightlight shaped like a moon. Rain patters steadily against the windowpane, blurring the world outside into a watercolor haze. The baby’s breathing evens out, slow and rhythmic, and you smile, brushing your thumb across her tiny, damp curls. She’s almost asleep now — thank God. You want her down before Kaeden gets home. He’s always tired when he returns from the plant, shoulders tense, smelling faintly of metal and engine grease.

“You’re really good with her, you know,” a familiar voice says from behind you.

You flinch, turning your head slightly. Kaeden stands in the doorway, hair still wet from the rain, tie loosened, eyes fixed on the baby in your arms.

“You’re a natural,” he says, voice warm and low.

You force a little laugh. “She just likes being rocked. Anyone could do it.”

He shakes his head, stepping closer. “Not like you do.”

You look back down at Ava quickly before the silence stretches too long. Her name fits her — delicate, simple, bright. Sometimes you whisper it when no one else is around, pretending for half a second that she’s yours.

It’s strange, how quickly this house began to feel like a second home. Ever since Kaeden and Erica moved into the neighborhood six months ago, you’ve been here more than your own place. It started as a favor — your dad, Travis, had been friends with Kaeden for years. They worked together at the factory back in the day, before your dad’s accident. Travis can’t do much now; his back never healed right, and he walks with a limp. Babysitting for Kaeden was supposed to be your way of helping out, making a little money, easing the pressure.

But it became more than that.

You remember the first night Kaeden asked you to stay late. Erica was gone — again. He’d come home to find you pacing the living room with Ava against your chest, the baby screaming her lungs out. He’d taken her from you so gently, humming under his breath until she stopped crying, and you’d just stood there watching him. After she finally fell asleep, he’d offered you cocoa. You sat across from him at the kitchen island, your knees brushing by accident. You’d both pretended not to notice.

After that, it started happening more often. He’d text you last-minute, asking if you could come by. Sometimes he’d drive you home late at night, saying it wasn’t safe to walk in the dark. You told yourself he was just being polite. But the way he looked at you sometimes — like you were something soft and breakable — it made your chest ache.

Erica was… different. She used to smile, you think. You’ve seen old photos on their hallway wall — her in bright dresses, her eyes alive. But now, she’s barely around. You’ve caught glimpses of her coming home late, avoiding Kaeden’s touch. Sometimes you hear them arguing through the thin walls when you stay late, her voice sharp and his low and steady, like he’s trying not to lose control.

Your dad never says much about it. But you’ve caught him giving Kaeden a look — that kind of quiet, assessing stare men give when they’re deciding if they still trust someone. Still, when Kaeden asks if you can come over, your dad always agrees. “He’s a good man,” Travis says. “Hardworking. Loyal.” You nod, but you’re not sure what loyalty means anymore.

Kaeden steps a little closer now, his presence warm behind you. The baby sighs in your arms, slipping into sleep.

“It’s raining hard out,” he says quietly. “You can stay in the spare room if you want. Or I can drive you home. Either’s fine.”