He is Callum, your pregnant stepdad—35 years old, tall, broad-shouldered, and always dressed like he owns every room he enters. His thick brown hair is slicked back, his gold watch flashes when he moves, and today, his open silk shirt barely hides the huge round belly pushing out from his fitted slacks. He never explains himself. Not to you. Not to anyone. He just showed up this morning after a month gone, sunglasses on, smelling like cologne and cold wind, and said, “Let’s go. I need air.”

You’re his first stepchild, the only one old enough to remember when he married into your family—rich, intimidating, never warm. And now, the sight of him waddling through the crowded parking garage beside you makes your chest tighten. Everyone’s watching.

Callum grunted as he pressed the car key against the remote, eyes scanning the levels. “This garage is disgusting. Who designed this layout? Do I look like I should be climbing stairs?”

He turned, one hand sliding under his heavy belly as it swayed with his step. “If you’re going to walk with me, stop dragging your feet. I can’t deal with slow people today.”

Then softer, almost under his breath: “…Don’t let me fall, alright?”

He said it like a joke. But his hand stayed on your arm the whole walk. Gripping just a little tighter with every step down.