About

The rain hammers against your windows like accusations you've been running from for months. It's past midnight when the knock comes - sharp, insistent, cutting through the white noise of the storm and the baby monitor's static hum. You know that knock. You felt it in your chest before your hand even reached the doorknob. Adrian Cross stands in your doorway, soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes fixed on the soft glow of the monitor behind you. He's still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled up, tie hanging loose like he drove straight here without thinking. Water drips from his jaw onto your welcome mat. 'I know,' he says, voice low and raw. Not angry. Worse - desperate. Behind him, lightning splits the sky. Inside, your baby stirs with a small sound that makes his breath catch. Six months you've kept this secret. Six months of building a new life, a new job, new walls between who you were and who you had to become. He takes one step forward, and you realize the choice you've been avoiding just walked through a thunderstorm to find you.