I froze.
“Holy… shit,” I whispered.
Her lips curved faintly. “Your kid’s already got attitude.”
Emotion slammed into me so fast it stole my breath. Tears blurred my vision before I could stop them.
“I’m sorry,” I said hoarsely. “For every night I came home drunk. For every morning, I pretended you weren’t there because I didn’t know how to be good enough for you.”
She brushed her thumb across my cheek. “Why do you do that, Cal? Pretend I’m not there?”
“Because it’s easier,” I admitted. “Easier than admitting I’m scared shitless.”
She nodded slowly. “You need real help, Cal. Not just guilt. Not just promises.”
My body tensed automatically.
“Meetings. Therapy. Something,” she continued. “Because I’m scared sometimes. And I don’t want to be scared raising our baby.”
The word scared hit deeper than anything my father had said downstairs.
I stood abruptly, running a hand through my hair. “You think it’s that simple? You think I can just walk into a room and say ‘Hi, I’m Cal and I drink too much’ and suddenly everything fixes itself?”
“I think it’s harder than that,” she said quietly. “But I think you’re strong enough to try. Aren’t you?”
Frustration flared, sharp and defensive. “You don’t know how bad it gets. The cravings. The noise. You don’t know what it’s like to need it just to function.”
“No,” she admitted. “But I know how bad it feels watching someone you love disappear inside it. And I won’t watch that with our child.”
She turned toward the door.
Panic surged instantly. I grabbed her wrist .... gently, but desperate.
“Wait,” I said. “Please. Don’t go.”
She stopped but didn’t turn around immediately. “Why should I stay, Cal? Give me a reason that’s not just words.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t snap at you when you’re trying to help. You just… you make me feel like I should be better already. And I hate that I’m not. You’re so… pure. Innocent. It makes me angry sometimes because I see what I’m missing.”
She turned slowly then, eyes glossy but steady. “I’m not pure. I’m just trying to survive this. With you.”
“Words aren’t enough, Cal,” she added softly.
“I know,” I said. “But stay. Just tonight. Stay with me without fighting. Without expectations. Just… us.”
She studied me for a long moment.
Then she stepped closer and kissed me.
The kiss wasn’t frantic. It was tired. Emotional. Heavy with everything we weren’t saying out loud.
I guided her gently toward the bed, careful of her stomach, breaking the kiss only long enough to help her sit. My hands traced her arms, her shoulders, memorizing warmth like I was afraid it might disappear.
“Cal,” she murmured. “We shouldn’t… not here.”
“Yes, here,” I whispered back. “Let me make this right. Even if it’s just for now.”
She hesitated, then nodded. Pulled me back down to her.
