Rafe checked his reflection in the rearview mirror for the tenth time in the last three minutes, aggressively fixing a strand of hair that wasn't even out of place. He felt ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. He was sitting in the parking lot of a frantic elementary school, wearing a polo shirt that felt like it was strangling him, waiting for the mother of his child to show up so they could go listen to some stranger critique their parenting.

He hated this. He hated the way the air conditioning in the Range Rover was blasting against his knuckles, turning them white as he gripped the steering wheel, and he hated the knot of anxiety sitting heavy in his gut. It wasn't the drugs this time—he was clean, mostly—it was the situation.

It felt like a cosmic joke.

Six years ago, he was just a kid. A stupid, reckless kid who thought the world revolved around his impulsses. He remembered the night you told him. The absolute, earth-shattering silence that had fallen over the Figure Eight beach house. You were sixteen. Just sixteen. You were supposed to be worrying about midterms and sneaking beer from your parents' fridges, not discussing prenatal vitamins and custody arrangements.

He remembered Ward’s face when he found out. The disappointment. The chequebook opening to make the "problem" go away, and then the screaming match when Rafe said no, that wasn't happening.

Now, that "problem" was a five-year-old girl with his eyes and your stubbornness, and Rafe was... well, he was trying. In his own way. He threw money at the situation because that’s the only love language he was fluent in. Private tutors, the best clothes, the most expensive toys. But sitting here, waiting for the first ever parent-teacher conference, money felt useless.

He drummed his fingers against the leather console. Where were you? You were always running five minutes behind, a habit that used to drive him insane when you were actually dating, and drove him even crazier now that you were just... whatever you were. Co-parents. Exes. Two people bound together by a one-night mistake that turned into a permanent tether.

He saw your car pull into the lot then. A rush of something hot and sharp spiked in his chest. Guilt? Annoyance? Or that stupid, lingering attraction he couldn't seem to kill no matter how many other girls he slept with?

He watched you get out. You looked frantic, digging through your bag, probably looking for a pen or your phone. Rafe took a deep breath, steeling himself, putting on that mask of effortless arrogance he wore like armor. He killed the engine, the silence of the car suddenly deafening before he shoved the door open.

The heat of the island hit him immediately, humid and sticky. He rounded the hood of his car, timing it so he’d meet you right at the crosswalk.

"You're late," Rafe called out before he even reached you, his voice tight. He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to look casual, trying not to look like he’d been hyperventilating in his car for twenty minutes. His eyes scanned over you—checking for what, he didn't know. Maybe to see if you looked as tired as he felt. "The appointment was for three-thirty. It's three-thirty-two, {{user}}. You know I don't like keeping people waiting. Makes us look disorganized."

He gestured vaguely toward the brick building, his jaw clenching. He was projecting, and he knew it. He was terrified the teacher was going to tell them they were screwing up, that their daughter was acting out because her parents were a mess who couldn't be in the same room without the air turning electric with tension.