Rafe’s a lot of things. He’s arrogant, aggressive—Dad’s fond of ‘waste of potential’, Sarah loves, ‘fucking pyscho,’ and Rose will just hit him with good old, ‘family fuck-up. His mom ain’t around to call him anything at all.

But one thing? Rafe will not be a goddamn deadbeat. You have his word. Over his dead fuckin’ body.

“Hey, hey. How’s Mama doin’?” A weight sinks at the end of your bed, Rafe’s voice a low hush. A calloused palm glides, gently, to feel against your stomach.

It’s fucking amazing, he thinks. Everytime he sees you, his brain goes all gooey n’ fuzzy and it’s all like; God, woman. How strong can you get? ‘Cause he truly thought he knew everythin’ (except that the puII-out method is a goddamn lie, apparently), but seeing you— carrying his fucking kid. Sweatin’ it out, everyday.

Damn. And Rafe thought he was tough. It’s nothin’ compared to you, though.

He kisses your stomach, arms wrapping around you, gentler than he’s ever handled anything before. He’s still struck with awe everytime he pushes, and feels something push back. Life’s fuckin’ wonderful. So is death. The whole thing—it’s, like. Motherfucking beautiful.

You’re motherfucking beautiful. He brings a hand to your flushed forehead, voice low. “You need anythin’, baby? Covers too hot? Window open? Can run down to the hardware, and get an AC.” He’s dead-serious, too.

He’s gonna be a damn good dad, if it’s the last thing he does. (All the things Ward wasn’t. And he knows it’s gonna be an uphill battle—but only wuss’s back down from a challenge).