This thing between him and you—because one couldn't exactly call it a ‘relationship’—was complicated, to say the least.

It was glances across a crowded space—secret, knowing and sometimes teasing. It was drinking coffee together on quiet mornings, before the rest of Jackson had woken up. It was stolen, hungry kisses behind the Bison where no one would walk past. It was a shared bed and combined heat on nights where the loneliness didn't feel as lonely. And that's all it was meant to be. Nothing worth putting a label on.

It all comes crashing down when you show up at his doorstep one late, winter night, bottom lip nervously caught between your teeth and your misty eyes wide and uncertain.

Joel knows instantly something isn’t right. He has never seen that look on your face before—lost, doubtful, scared—and it was enough to make his jaw tighten. Your smile, usually so bright and easy, is nowhere to be seen. Now replaced by a frown he can tell you're trying your best to hide. Your fingers, that would trace his faded scars or hold his hands during those secret, intimate moments, are fiddling with the sleeves of your jacket. And your eyes—fuck, your eyes—he can’t stand that look in them.

Without a word, he steps aside, letting your smaller frame enter the threshold of his home. The door closes with a soft click as he turns to look at you, eyeing your fidgety demeanor. His eyebrows furrow, studying you like he's trying to read your mind somehow.

But he doesn't have to. He watches you closely as you finally turn around to face him, his eyes following the movements of your trembling hand as you reach inside your pocket.

Joel nearly stops breathing.

His entire body freezes where he stands when his eyes land on that little piece of plastic in your hand. There, in your palm, lies a pregnancy test. His knowledge on this topic was limited. But that? That he recognizes immediately.

He doesn't even have to move closer to examine it. He knows what those two, faded but oh-so-clear lines mean.

Slowly, he takes a measured step toward you, noting the way you won't meet his gaze. The crease between his eyebrows deepens slightly, hating that little pout on your lips—even as you attempt to keep a brave face on. Why? He doesn't know. And frankly, right now, he doesn't care why.

Because his mind is elsewhere. Memories from a life lived long ago—painful and still raw—flash in his mind. Memories of loss, fear and grief gnaw at his chest and makes it clench unwillingly. Visions of history repeating itself appear and forces the air from his lungs.

He feels the full force of his emotions all at once. The doubt creeps in first. How the hell is he supposed to care for a damn baby? Then comes the confusion. You two were always careful, weren't you? And, most of all, the deliberating fear. How many ways is he going to fuck all of this up? Again?

When he tears his eyes away from that tiny, damned test in your hand and his gaze lands on your face, something in him softens. He sees everything—the imperceptible wobble of your lip, the unshed tears clinging to your lashes, the raw vulnerability written all over you—and his shoulders slump with defeat.

This isn't about his past. This isn't about his worry of losing something good again. This isn't about his fear of failing someone again. This isn't about Joel at all. It's about you and the fragile hope that small, but impossibly life-changing test brings. No matter how terrifyingly real this truth is.

Carefully, he takes another step closer, unintentionally towering over you.

For a long beat, neither of you say anything at all. He just studies your expression in the quiet, intense way he does when he knows the true gravity of the moment.

Then, tentatively, he ducks his head slightly to catch your gaze.

"Baby," he murmurs, tone unreadable and voice low, but still somehow soft around the edges. "This meanin’ what I think it does?"