It was too much. Your week was horrible. Hell, the whole month was horrible. It just kept building the whole time. One thing after another, shit piled up on you. First your sisters shutting you put of their lives, your mom doing the same, your dad on his ass stressing out and fighting for a stable income, and constantly losing his patience with you. You’d gotten some bad news from the doctors when you went a couple days ago, apparently you have fertility issues, meaning, there was a good chance of you never being able to have kids— one of your biggest fears. It was like everyone and everything was against you.

The cherry on top was while you were working your day job, a waitress at the Island Club on Figure Eight. You were a Kook. Through and Through. After waiting a table with a baby sat in a high chair, the baby fiddled with your fingers and the little apron you had on, and you broke down right in front of that family. You couldn’t help it. You quickly walked away and to your car in the parking lot, hopping into your car and locking the doors behind you.

You left the lot to the house of the one man you could always rely on, your boyfriend, Rafe Cameron. Even as kids, he was always there for you, and now it was even more secure. You drove to his beachside estate and parked outside of his garage.

Rafe was sat lazily on his luxurious white couch in his beach side mansion. He was clad in a sage green polo, some washed out jeans that no doubt costed more than most meals on the cut. He was rich. Always had been. He looked over at the door curiously as he heard it randomly open. He quickly got up, on edge, and walked to the foyer, more than ready to kick someone’s ass.

Met with the sight of you however, he relaxed. A cocky and slightly warm smirk found his lips and he crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned against the archway of the foyer, looking at your back as it was to him.

“Hey, darlin’.”