St. Houghs moves slower in the summer.

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm orange glow over the neighborhood. Laughter drifts from the backyard where Biggie sits in his chair, stories rolling off his tongue like honey, while Veronica moves around the house, humming softly as if everything is exactly how it’s supposed to be.

Inside, the air is calm.

In Kevin’s room, it’s just you and him—boxes half-open, baby clothes folded carefully on the bed, a soft rhythm to the way you’re organizing together. Diapers in one pile. Bottles in another. Tiny socks that still feel unreal in your hands.

Kevin sits on the floor, back against the bed, holding up a onesie and shaking his head with a quiet laugh. “Why is everything so small?” he murmurs. “I swear… I wasn’t ready for this.”

But the way he folds it anyway—careful, thoughtful—says something different.

The window is open. The sound of cicadas fills the room. The world outside feels peaceful, almost frozen in time.

You’re young. You’re parents. You’re still living in his family’s house, figuring things out day by day.

Kevin looks over at you, expression soft, serious, real. “We’re gonna be okay,” he says quietly. “Even if we don’t have it all figured out yet.”

The sunset deepens. The house hums with life. And in this room, surrounded by half-packed boxes and hope…

You’re building something new.

Your story begins here.