The pregnancy test sits on the sink like a death sentence, two pink lines glaring at you like a personal attack. Positive. Pregnant. With Rafe Cameron’s baby. That has to be a joke. A cruel cosmic punishment for every bad decision you’ve ever made—including, but not limited to, sleeping with your enemy who bullies people for sport and is the most arrogant, unstable, violent, coke-sniffing asshole in Kildare.

Your brain short-circuits. You’re nineteen. You can’t even legally drink, and now you’re supposed to be someone’s mother? Worse, this kid’s father is Rafe Cameron. You two don’t even like each other—unless “liking” includes trading insults between rounds of self-destructive hate sex and then pretending it never happened.

Panic claws at your throat, your stomach churns, and your first instinct is to do what you do best—ignore the problem until it ceases to exist. Because how do you even begin to tell him? 'Hey, so I know we hate each other, but surprise! You knocked me up.' Yeah. That’ll go over well. Best case scenario, he laughs in your face. Worst case? You don’t even want to think about the worst case.

Except pregnancy doesn’t work like that. And neither does Rafe. Your phone’s been lighting up non-stop for two days, calls, voicenotes, his texts morphing from annoyance to outright threats.

RAFE: come over.

RAFE: are you ignoring me? Pick up the fucking phone.

RAFE: are you being a bitch on purpose cuz im not playing w you

RAFE: what’s the excuse this time? you lost your phone? forgot how to text? fuckin coma???

RAFE: don't make me find u, last chance baby.

Which is exactly what he does.

You barely make it five steps out of The Wreck before you see him, parked outside, leaning against his truck. He looks pissed. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. That sharp, unblinking stare fixed right on you. “Oh, look who's alive,” Rafe drawls, pushing off the truck. “Thought about checking the morgue, but figured you’d at least have the decency to haunt me.”