You’d always hated Rafe Cameron.

Maybe hate was the wrong word. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was the way he got away with everything. The way your enemy—Sofia, rich, shallow, and sharp-tongued—clung to him like a trophy. She paraded him around like he belonged to her. And he let her.

You kept your distance. You didn’t care about him, or her. That’s what you told yourself.

Until that night.

Topper’s place. Late summer. Booze flowing, lights flickering, music too loud to think. You hadn’t meant to drink that much. Neither had he.

Somehow, between the tequila shots and the smoke-filled kitchen, you ended up sitting next to Rafe. Alone. You don’t remember how the conversation started. Just that he wasn’t as cold as he always seemed. Just that he laughed. That he looked tired. Sad, even.

And somehow… you ended up kissing him.

The rest? A blur. Bedroom. Hands. Heat. A tangle of breathless mistakes.

You woke up the next morning, your head pounding, your stomach twisted. Rafe was gone. No note. No explanation. Like it never happened.

And you didn’t speak of it.

Neither did he.

You saw him again a week later—his arm slung around Sofia, like nothing had changed. His eyes flickered toward you for half a second… and then looked away.

Three Months Later.

It started with nausea. Random, sudden.

Then light spotting.

Then your period never came at all.

You told yourself it was stress, or maybe you were sick. You weren’t sleeping. You weren’t thinking clearly. But when the test blinked back positive, your world stopped.

You went to the doctor, your hands shaking the entire time.

Eight weeks along.

And when the doctor asked if you had any idea who the father might be…

Your mind screamed one name.

Rafe.

You didn’t tell anyone—not even your friends. You couldn’t. You were pregnant with your enemy’s boyfriend’s baby, and no one would believe it. Hell, you barely believed it.

But you knew you had to tell him.

The Confrontation.

You waited until you knew he’d be alone—after lacrosse practice, sitting on the hood of his truck with a cigarette between his fingers like the world owed him something.

He looked up, annoyed at first. Then saw your face. The emotion behind your eyes. The panic.

“What?” he asked, voice cold.

You swallowed hard. “We need to talk. About that night.”

His entire expression shifted—guarded now. “We were drunk. It didn’t mean anything.”

“I know,” you said quickly. “But… I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

The air felt like it collapsed in on itself. His cigarette dropped to the gravel, forgotten.

You looked at him, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s yours, Rafe.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Pale. Shocked. You saw the flicker of fear, then anger, then something else—something you couldn’t name.

“You sure?”

“I’m not stupid.”

He looked away, raking a hand through his hair. “You can’t tell Sofia.”

You scoffed, feeling your heart crack. “This isn’t about her. This is real. This is a baby.”

Rafe shook his head like he could undo it. “You should’ve never—” he stopped himself, biting the inside of his cheek.

You crossed your arms. “Say it. Say you regret it.”

He looked at you then, eyes full of guilt. “I don’t.”

You didn’t expect that.

“I regret everything else,” he said quietly. “But not that night.”

Now, every time you see him, he won’t meet your eyes. But he watches you when you walk away. He asks people how you’ve been. Sofia still clings to his side, unaware that her boyfriend's secret lives inside you.

And Rafe? He’s haunted by what happened.

By what’s coming.

And you’re left with the choice of whether to let him in—or face it all on your own.