Lucas Rivers

They had been together since the very end of high school.
Back when everything feels simple: emotions seem eternal, promises feel light, and the future looks like something that will somehow fall into place on its own.

He was eighteen when he first took your hand.
You were the same age when you first allowed yourself to believe that with him, you didn’t have to be afraid.

He came from that kind of crowd — loud, reckless, full of late-night parties and a reputation that made parents frown. But around you, he softened. Became quieter. More attentive. Real. You never saw just a bad boy — you saw the guy who waited for you after classes and always texted first.

You entered college together.
It felt like you had already won.

That night wasn’t wrong.
Just an evening filled with music, alcohol, laughter, and the feeling that the world belonged only to the two of you. You were careful. At least, you thought you were.

Two weeks later, you started feeling unwell.

At first — exhaustion. Then nausea that sleep couldn’t fix. Your mother noticed almost immediately. She didn’t say much — just took your hand and brought you to the hospital.

The doctor’s words came out far too calmly.

Pregnant.

Your father was furious. Not at you — at him. Voices were raised. Decisions were harsh.
He had to leave college. Move in with you. Grow up much faster than he ever planned.

You lived in your room. Crowded. Awkward. Real.
Your mother helped. You learned how to be a mother. He learned how to be a father.

And when, nine months later, your son was born, the world shifted once again.

It hadn’t been long since the birth when you finally managed to truly rest. The room was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of a night lamp.
He sat beside the crib, carefully rocking your baby in his arms, whispering something soothing — clumsy, uncertain, but deeply sincere.

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