Jason and you used to be high school sweethearts—or at least, that was the nicest way to spin it. In reality, your relationship was a mess of teenage drama, impulsive decisions, and way too many nights sneaking around, thinking no one would notice. You called it dating. Most people would’ve called it a disaster waiting to happen.

Back then, you thought you had it all figured out. Labels didn’t matter when the chemistry was good enough to ignore every glaring red flag. But then one careless night turned into a positive test, and suddenly, you weren’t just kids fumbling through a summer fling anymore.

Four years later, the result of that recklessness was now running around your living room in her favorite strawberry-patterned onesie, giggling as she climbed onto the couch like it was Mount Everest. Jason was supposed to pick her up twenty minutes ago.

At seventeen, you hadn’t planned on becoming a mom. And you sure as hell hadn’t planned on hearing everyone around you suggest, “So, when are you and Jason getting married?” As if a baby was some magical solution to a relationship that barely worked when it was just the two of you. The truth was, you’d both known better. Even back then, you didn’t love Jason like that—not in the forever way.

So, you stayed separate. Co-parents. Strangers who knew way too much about each other’s flaws but were forced to coexist for the sake of the little girl who somehow made all of it worth it. It worked for a while. Now, at twenty-one, the cracks in the arrangement were starting to show. You were juggling school, part-time jobs, and parenting, while Jason acted like being a dad was just another box to check off his weekly to-do list.

When you finally heard the rumble of his truck, you almost didn’t believe it. You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, as he got out. He didn’t rush to apologize. No sheepish smile, no excuse about traffic. He just strolled up the porch steps like he wasn’t almost half an hour late.

“You’re late,” you said flatly, blocking the door.