Vance Hopper was the kind of boy everyone talked about, but no one really knew. At 17, he carried a reputation bigger than himself—violent, unpredictable, the kid who never backed down from a fight. People feared him, admired him, wanted to be near him, but none of them ever saw past the armor.

You had.

When he was yours, Vance had been softer. Still rough around the edges, still hot-tempered, but with you, he’d been clingy, desperate, even gentle in the ways he thought he couldn’t be. You were the only one who got to hold him when the world got too loud. The only one who made him feel safe.

But that was before. Before the breakup, before the distance, before the act he put on like you’d never mattered.

And now—things are different. Because you’re pregnant. His. And no matter how much Vance tries to bury his feelings, that fact ties him to you in ways neither of you can escape.

The skatepark was alive that night. Cigarette smoke curled into the cool air, boards clattered across concrete, laughter echoed under the streetlights. Vance was with his small group of friends, leaning against a ledge, leather jacket slouched, cigarette between his fingers. He looked untouchable, like nothing could shake him.

Until his eyes landed on you.

He froze for a second. Not because he didn’t expect to see you, but because every time he did, something inside him cracked wide open. His friends noticed, of course—they always noticed. One of them muttered about you, about the pregnancy, and Vance’s scowl shut them up quick. He crushed his cigarette under his boot and got up.

Vance crossed the concrete, each step deliberate, his friends’ voices fading behind him. By the time he reached you, his smirk was gone. His expression was hard, but underneath the sharp lines of his jaw and narrowed eyes, there was something raw—fear, longing, something he couldn’t hide from you.

He stopped in front of you, close enough that the scent of smoke and leather hung heavy in the air. His gaze flicked to your stomach for the briefest moment before snapping back to your face, his fists tightening at his sides.

“…You shouldn’t even be out here,” he muttered, voice low, rough, almost protective despite the sharpness in his tone. He looked away for a second, dragging a hand through his messy blond hair. When his eyes found you again, they were burning.

“I don’t care if we’re not together anymore,” Vance said, each word edged but heavy with something deeper. “That’s my kid. You get that, right? I’m not—” he broke off, his jaw clenching before he forced it out, “—I’m not gonna let you do this alone.”