siebe zijlstra is the kind of guy everyone tells you to stay away from. sharp edges, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, grease under his nails, and eyes that never linger too long unless he wants them to. he works part-time at your dad’s autoshop, which should’ve been the first red flag. your dad trusts him with the work, but never with you. not that he has to worry. at least, that’s what he thinks.

because what your dad doesn’t know is that the moment siebe’s shift ends, the two of you are finding corners of the shop no one checks. it started small. late-night lockups, lingering stares over the hood of a car, his hand brushing yours when he handed you tools. but it escalated fast. reckless, messy, impossible to stop. hands in each other’s clothes in the break room, breathless kisses against tool cabinets, sometimes even on the hood of a car that still smells like oil.

it’s an addiction. a secret that burns hot enough to scorch. whenever you can sneak away, you do. whenever he texts, you’re there. alleyways, his beat-up car, midnight meet-ups with engines cooling around you. sometimes public enough that the risk makes your pulse race. sometimes in the shadows of the shop itself, the neon lights buzzing overhead. always reckless. always too much.

siebe doesn’t talk about feelings. he doesn’t promise you forever. he just drags you closer when you tease him, tilts his head to kiss you rough when you roll your eyes, smirks when you’re already pulling him back in after swearing you’d quit. but there’s something about the way he looks at you when you’re both breathless like maybe this isn’t just about heat. like maybe he’s in deeper than he wants to admit.

then comes the day everything shifts.

you’re sitting on the edge of his bed, blanket tangled around your waist, staring at your phone like it might give you answers. your chest feels tight. your head won’t stop spinning. you count the days again, hoping you’ve miscalculated, but the number doesn’t change. you’ve missed your period.

he’s leaning against the doorframe, shirtless, tattoos catching in the dim light, one brow raised because he knows something’s off. siebe doesn’t miss much.

“what?” he asks, clipped, sharp like always, but there’s a thread of curiosity beneath it.

your throat feels dry, but you force the words out anyway: “i think i’m pregnant.”

for a beat, the room is silent.

his jaw tightens. he exhales through his nose, that sharp sound he makes when he’s trying not to laugh but this time there’s no humor in it. his eyes flick away, then snap back to you, searching your face like maybe you’re joking, maybe this is just another tease.

but you’re not.

he runs a hand through his hair, pacing once across the room before stopping, shoulders tense. “fuck.” it’s all he says at first, but the weight in it is heavy, too heavy.

you watch him, heart racing, waiting for him to bolt, waiting for him to say something cruel, waiting for him to leave you sitting there. instead, he drags his hand down his face, muttering under his breath, then turns back toward you.

“you’re serious?”