The third rail clicks into place with a sound that settles something in the room. Derek runs his palm along the wood, slow, checking the seam, and I watch the way his fingers trace the grain like he's reading a map of everything we've built. The crib is finished. All the slats, all the joints, all the careful hours—complete.

"There," he says, and his voice is low, satisfied. He taps the rail once, twice, testing it. "Solid."

The word lands in my chest and stays there. Solid. I want to be that. I want to be the thing that doesn't shift under pressure, that holds its shape when everything else tries to bend it. But the lie about Ethan is sitting right behind my sternum, and it's not solid at all. It's a stone I've been swallowing for weeks, and it's starting to feel like it's too big to get down.

"Derek."

His hand stills on the rail. He looks up, and those sharp blue eyes read my face in a single pass—the way they always do, like he's been cataloging my tells since before I knew I had them. "Say it," he says.

And the garage gets very quiet. The fan rattles. The fluorescent light hums. The crib stands between us, finished, and I can feel the truth pushing against my teeth.

"I can't keep lying to Ethan." The words come out raw, scraped. "About the baby. About him being the father. I can't—" I stop, press my palm flat against my stomach, where the swell is just beginning to round the waistband of my jeans. "I keep thinking about what happens when he finds out. When he realizes he spent all that hope on a child that isn't his."

Derek doesn't move. His hand is still on the rail, but his knuckles have gone white, and I can see the muscle in his jaw working. "You want to tell him the truth."

"I want to stop carrying this." My voice cracks on the last word. "Every time I look at him, I see it in his eyes—that hope. That belief that some part of this is his. And I put it there. I put it there on purpose, and I don't know how to take it back without breaking him."

Derek steps around the crib. He doesn't reach for me, doesn't close the distance. He just stands there, on the other side of the finished wood, and I can feel the weight of his gaze like a hand on my throat. "And if telling him the truth means he stops protecting you? Means Vince's brother comes back, means we're alone again?"

"I know." The words are barely a breath. "I know what it costs."

"Then why?" His voice is quiet, but there's an edge to it—not anger, not yet. Something closer to fear, which is worse. Derek doesn't get scared. Derek plans, and watches, and waits. But I can see it now, flickering at the edges of his eyes. The possibility that the lie was the only thing keeping me safe, and I'm about to pull it out from under us both.

"Because I can't build a life on a lie." I finally move, my hand reaching out to touch the crib rail between us. The wood is smooth, sanded, ready for a child who deserves better than to be born into a foundation of half-truths. "I can't raise Samuel—or whatever we name her—knowing that we started this by deceiving a good man who just wanted to protect me."

Derek's hand covers mine on the rail. His palm is rough, calloused, warm. "He's not a good man. He raped you in an alley."

"I know what he did." I don't pull away. His grip is the only thing holding me upright right now. "But that doesn't mean I get to use him. That doesn't mean I get to spend his hope like currency and then act surprised when it comes due."

Derek is silent for a long moment. The fan rattles. The light hums. And then he says, very quietly, "What do you want to do?"

I look at him—really look. At the grease under his nails, the faint scar on his jaw, the way his thumb is tracing small circles on my knuckles like he's trying to memorize the shape of me. "I want to tell him the truth. All of it. That the baby is yours. That you and I are building a life together. That he needs to let go."

"And if he doesn't let go?"

"Then we deal with that together." I squeeze his hand. "Like we've dealt with everything else."

Derek exhales, long and slow, and something in his shoulders loosens. He lifts my hand to his lips, kisses my knuckles, and I feel the tremor in his mouth—the only crack in the armor he lets me see. "Okay," he says against my skin. "We tell him. Tonight."

The word lands between us, heavier than the crib, heavier than the name, heavier than anything I've carried so far. Tonight. The truth is no longer a stone in my chest—it's a door, and I'm about to walk through it.

My phone is in my hand before I've decided to reach for it. The screen glows in the dim room, and Ethan's name sits there, a contact I haven't opened in weeks. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, and I can feel Derek's eyes on me, patient, waiting.

"We need to talk. Tonight." I type it out, then read it back. The words feel too small for what they're carrying. Too neat for the wreckage they're about to cause.

I look up. Derek hasn't moved from the other side of the crib. His arms are crossed, his jaw tight, and I can see the war happening behind his eyes—the part of him that wants to snatch the phone away and the part that knows this has to be mine to do.

"You sure about this?" His voice is rough, scraped clean of its usual teasing edge.

"No." I laugh, but it comes out hollow. "But I'm sure I can't keep lying."

He nods slowly, then uncrosses his arms. He walks around the crib, and I feel his heat before he even touches me. His hands settle on my hips, thumbs pressing into the soft denim at my waistband, and he tips my chin up with his knuckle.

"Then send it."

My thumb presses down. The message flies, and the little whoosh of it leaving feels like a door slamming shut somewhere I can't see. The screen reads *Delivered*, and I watch it for a beat too long, waiting for the three dots that don't come.

I slip the phone into my back pocket. The weight of it feels different now—not a device, but a grenade with the pin pulled.

"He's going to call," I say. "He's going to want to know where, when, why."

"Let him." Derek's hands tighten on my hips. "He can come here. He can meet us at the depot. He can bring the whole goddamn crew for all I care. We tell him the truth, and then we live with whatever he does with it."

"What if he doesn't believe us?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "What if he thinks I'm lying to push him away, and he stays anyway?"

Derek's mouth curves, but there's no humor in it. "Then we make him believe us. Together."

My phone buzzes against my hip. I pull it out, and Ethan's name is there, the message short and sharp:

*Where?*

I read it twice. The garage. The apartment. The coffee shop where he used to bring me lattes I never finished. Every option feels like a different kind of trap.

Derek's chin drops to my shoulder, his breath warm against my ear. "Tell him here. This is our home now. If he wants the truth, he can come to it."

I type the address before I can second-guess myself. Send. The phone goes back in my pocket, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"He'll be here in twenty minutes." My voice sounds strange, like it belongs to someone else. "Maybe less."

Derek turns me to face him. His hands cup my jaw, thumbs brushing the hollows under my cheekbones, and he looks at me like I'm the only thing in the room worth seeing. "Whatever happens tonight, we walk through it together. You and me and this baby. That's the truth. Everything else is just noise."

I nod, and he kisses me—soft, deliberate, a seal on something I can't name. When he pulls back, his thumb traces the corner of my mouth, and I can smell the motor oil on his skin, the familiar scent that started all of this.

Somewhere outside, a car engine turns over. I don't know if it's Ethan. I don't know if it's anything at all. But my hand finds Derek's, and I hold on.

His hand stays locked around mine as we cross the cracked vinyl floor, our footsteps echoing off the corrugated metal walls. The garage door is rolled up halfway, and the evening air rushes in—cooler than the apartment, carrying the smell of rain on asphalt and the distant hum of the highway. I feel the weight of my belly as I move, a new gravity that anchors me to each step.

Derek stops at the threshold, his eyes scanning the dark lot outside. The security light above the bay door casts a pale halo on the concrete, and I can see the outline of his truck, the pile of tires stacked against the wall, the workbench where he first claimed me. Everything looks the same, but nothing is. The crib behind us, the ultrasound in his pocket, the life growing inside me—they've rewritten every surface.

"He's not coming here," I say, and the words surprise me. I hadn't planned them. They just rise up, certain as the heartbeat I can feel in my throat.

Derek turns, his brow furrowing. "You sent him the address."

"I know." I press my free hand to the small swell under my shirt, feeling the warmth of my own skin through the fabric. "But he won't come. He'll want to meet somewhere neutral. Somewhere he thinks he has the advantage."

The garage fan rattles behind us, pushing warm air against my back. Derek's jaw works, and I can see him running the calculations—the same way he did on the bus, the same way he does every time the world threatens to close in. "Then we don't wait for him."

My hand tightens around his. "We go to him."

He looks at me, really looks, and I watch his eyes drop to my belly before climbing back to my face. There's something new in his expression—not fear, not anger, but a kind of awe that makes my chest ache. "You're showing," he says, his voice rough. "When did that happen?"

I look down. The shirt I'm wearing—one of his, an old gray tee with a grease stain on the collar—pulls taut across my stomach in a way it didn't last week. The curve is subtle, but it's there. A promise taking shape. "I don't know," I admit. "I guess I stopped noticing."

Derek's hand leaves mine, and for a moment I think he's pulling away. But instead he steps closer, his palm settling on the curve of my belly with a gentleness that makes my breath catch. His thumb traces a slow circle through the cotton, and I can feel the heat of his hand through the fabric, grounding me.

"We're really doing this," he says, and it's not a question. It's a vow.

I cover his hand with mine, pressing it harder against the swell. "We're really doing this."

The headlights cut through the dark before we hear the engine. A car turns into the lot, moving slow, cautious—not Derek's truck, not the delivery van that comes on Tuesdays. I feel Derek's hand tense against my belly, and we both turn to watch the sedan pull up to the bay door, its engine idling.

Ethan steps out. He's wearing the same button-down he had on the last time I saw him, the one with the coffee stain on the cuff, and his brown eyes find me immediately. They drop to my stomach, then rise to Derek's hand still resting there, and I watch his face go through a series of transformations I can't name.

"You said to come here," he says, his voice flat. "So I came."

I step forward, Derek's hand falling away from my belly, and the space between us feels like a minefield. The night air is cool against my skin, and I can smell the rain that hasn't fallen yet, the ozone promise of a storm on the way.

"I need to tell you the truth," I say. "About the baby."

My words hang in the air between us, and Ethan's face goes through a dozen micro-movements I can't parse. He takes a step forward, and the security light catches the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands are balled at his sides. Behind me, Derek's presence is a wall of heat, silent and ready.

"The truth," Ethan repeats, and the word comes out like he's testing its weight. "You mean about whose it actually is."

I open my mouth, but the sound that comes out isn't mine. It's the crunch of gravel under a heavy boot, and all three of us turn toward the dark edge of the lot where a second car has pulled in without headlights—a black sedan, low and mean, idling like a held breath.

The driver's door opens, and a man steps out. He's bigger than Ethan, broader than Derek, with a shaved head and a scar that carves a white line through his left eyebrow. He's wearing a leather jacket that's too warm for the evening, and his eyes find me before they find anyone else.

"Well, well." His voice is gravel and oil, and it crawls up my spine. "The girl with the long hair. Vince's brother told me you'd be here."

My hand finds Derek's arm, fingers digging into the muscle hard enough to leave marks. "Derek." His name is a hiss, barely a breath. "That's not—"

"I know." Derek's voice is flat, controlled, but I can feel the tension running through his arm like a live wire. "Stay behind me."

Ethan hasn't moved. He's standing between us and the newcomer, his posture shifted, and I watch his eyes flick from the man to me to Derek, calculating something I can't see. "Who the hell are you?"

The man grins, and it's not a friendly thing. "Name's Ray. I work for a man who's been looking for this one for a while now." He jerks his chin at me. "Heard through the grapevine she was still around. Figured I'd check the old haunt."

My stomach clenches, and I press my palm flat against the swell of the baby, a shield I didn't ask for. "You need to leave." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Whatever Vince's brother told you, it's handled. He backed off."

"Backed off." Ray laughs, a short, ugly sound. "Honey, Vince's brother doesn't back off. He strategizes. And right now, his strategy is making sure you understand that the deal your boyfriend made with Ethan doesn't mean shit to him."

Derek steps forward, putting himself between me and Ray, and I see the crowbar on the workbench in my periphery—the one he uses to pry open stubborn rims, the one that's been sitting there all day. "You're on my property. You've got about ten seconds to get back in that car before I make you."

Ray doesn't flinch. He just tilts his head, studying Derek like he's reading a menu. "You're the mechanic. The one who took her on the bus." He whistles low. "Heard about that. Heard you got a thing for claiming what ain't yours."

The air goes tight. I can feel Derek's rage through his back, the way his shoulders bunch, and I grab his arm again, pulling him back a step. "Don't," I whisper. "He's baiting you."

Ethan moves then, stepping into the space between Derek and Ray with his hands up, palms out. "Everybody calm the fuck down." His voice is sharp, cutting through the tension. "Ray, you said you work for Vince's brother. I made a deal with him. He agreed to back off. So either you're here without his blessing, or the deal's already dead. Which is it?"

Ray's grin widens, and something in it makes my blood go cold. "The deal's dead, college boy. Vince's brother got a call from Mer about an hour ago. Seems she's got a grudge of her own, and she's willing to trade information for protection. Your little lie about the baby being yours?" He shakes his head slowly. "Everyone knows the truth now. And everyone knows what happens to people who lie to Vince's brother."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Mer. She was supposed to be done. She took the money, signed the release, walked away. But she never really walks away, does she? She just finds a new angle, a new way to sink her hooks in.

Derek's hand finds mine, crushing my fingers in his grip. "Get inside," he says, his voice low and urgent. "Now. Both of you."

But I can't move. My feet are rooted to the concrete, and all I can see is Ray's scarred face, the way his eyes keep dropping to my belly like he's already counting the ways he can use it against me. The truth was supposed to be the thing that set us free. Instead, it's become the thing that's about to bury us.

Ray takes a step forward, and Derek's hand tightens around mine. The crowbar is still on the workbench, glinting in the security light, and I can see Derek's eyes flick to it, calculating the distance, the time, the odds.

"Where's the girl?" Ray calls out, his voice carrying across the lot. "Vince's brother wants to see her. Wants to make sure she understands the terms of the new arrangement."

Derek's boots scrape against the concrete as he shifts his weight, positioning himself squarely between me and the man who's come to take me. And in that moment, I feel the baby move—a tiny flutter, the first I've felt, like a fish brushing against the inside of my skin.

I press my hand harder against my belly, and I step out from behind Derek's back.

The concrete is cool through the soles of my shoes. I can feel Derek's hand on my arm, trying to pull me back, but my feet have made their decision before my brain catches up. Ray's eyes track my movement, and I watch his grin flicker—just for a second—like he wasn't expecting the pregnant one to be the one who steps forward.

"You want to talk about terms?" My voice comes out clear, steady, and I press my palm flat against the swell of my belly like I'm grounding myself in it. "Then Vince's brother can come here himself. He can look me in the eye and tell me what he wants. He doesn't get to send a messenger to do his talking for him."

Ray's grin doesn't quite fade, but it stiffens at the edges. He takes a step closer, and I feel Derek shift behind me, a wall of coiled tension. "You've got a mouth on you, sweetheart. That's cute. But Vince's brother doesn't make house calls."

"Then he doesn't get what he wants." I hold Ray's gaze, and I can feel the baby flutter again—that tiny fish-brush against my skin—like it's reminding me I'm not just standing here for myself. "I'm not a package to be picked up. I'm not a debt to be collected. I'm a person, and I'm done being treated like cargo."

Ray's eyes drop to my belly, and something shifts in his expression—not softening, but recalculating. "You think that matters to him? The bun in the oven?"

"I think it matters to you." I tilt my chin up, and I can hear the gravel crunch under my feet as I take another step toward him. "You're standing here alone, Ray. No backup. No crew. Just you and a car with no headlights, in a lot where the man behind me has a crowbar and the man beside you has already made a deal with your boss's brother."

Ray's jaw tightens. I watch his hand curl and uncurl at his side, and I know I've hit something—some nerve I didn't know I was aiming for. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" I let the words hang. "You said it yourself. Mer traded information for protection. That means she's scared of something. And scared people make deals with whoever's holding the biggest stick. Right now, that's not you."

The silence stretches between us, thick as the heat in the garage. I can hear Derek's breathing behind me, steady and controlled, and Ethan's sharp exhale somewhere to my left. But my eyes stay locked on Ray, watching the muscles in his scarred face work as he runs the calculations.

"You've got nerve," he says finally, and there's something almost like respect in his voice. "I'll give you that."

"I've got more than nerve." I press my hand harder against my belly. "I've got a reason to fight. And I've got two men behind me who've already proven they'll do whatever it takes to keep me safe. You want to test that? Go ahead. But you should know—I'm not the easy target you were sent to collect."

Ray's eyes flick past me to Derek, then to Ethan, and I can see him weighing his options. The crowbar glints on the workbench. The security light hums. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks, and the sound cuts through the tension like a blade.

"This isn't over," he says, but his voice has lost its edge. He's already backing toward the sedan, already calculating the cost of pushing further. "Vince's brother will hear about this."

"Good." I don't move. "Tell him I said he can come talk to me himself. I'll be here."

Ray pauses at the driver's door, his hand on the handle. He looks at me one more time, and I see something flicker in his eyes—not fear, but something close to it. A crack in the armor. Then he gets in, the engine turns over, and the black sedan pulls out of the lot without its headlights, swallowed by the dark.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, and my knees go weak. Derek's hand is there in an instant, catching my elbow, steadying me against the concrete. "You okay?" His voice is rough, scraped clean.

I nod, but my heart is still hammering. "I think so."

Ethan steps forward, his face unreadable in the security light. He looks at me, then at Derek's hand on my arm, and something in his expression shifts—not anger, not hurt, but something closer to resignation. "You weren't lying," he says quietly. "About the baby. It's his."

The words hang between us, and I feel Derek's grip tighten on my elbow. "Ethan—"

"Don't." He holds up a hand, cutting me off. "I don't need the details. I just—" He stops, rubs the back of his neck, and I can see the weight of everything settling on his shoulders. "I made a deal with Vince's brother. If he's already broken it, then I've got nothing to hold over him. Neither do you."

Derek steps forward, his body angled between me and Ethan. "We'll handle it."

"Will you?" Ethan's voice is sharp, but there's no malice in it. "Because from where I'm standing, you just told a man who works for Vince's brother that you're not afraid of him. That's not a strategy. That's a dare."

The sedan's taillights disappear around the corner, and the lot falls quiet. I can still feel the baby fluttering against my palm, a constant reminder of what I'm fighting for. Derek's hand finds mine, and I hold on.

"Then we'll make it a strategy," I say, and I can feel the truth of it settling in my bones. "Together."

Ethan looks at me for a long moment, and I watch something in his eyes give way—the hope I put there, finally loosening its grip. "You really are something else, Maya." He shakes his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I hope he knows what he's got."

Derek's hand tightens around mine. "I do."

Ethan nods once, then turns and walks back to his car without another word. The engine turns over, the headlights sweep across the lot, and he's gone—leaving us alone in the dark, the crib waiting inside, the truth finally spoken.

The silence after Ethan's taillights is heavier than the one before them. I can still see the red glow fading at the corner, and my hand is pressed so hard against my belly that I can feel my own heartbeat through the cotton of Derek's shirt. The baby flutters again, that tiny fish-brush, and I wonder if it can feel the adrenaline, if it knows its mother just stared down a man who works for the people who want us dead.

Derek's hand is still wrapped around mine, but I feel him shift, turning toward the garage. "Come on. Inside."

I don't move. My feet are rooted to the concrete, and I'm watching the empty space where Ethan's car was, replaying the way his shoulders looked when he walked away. The resignation in his voice when he said *you really are something else, Maya*. The way he said *I hope he knows what he's got*—like he was already letting go.

"He's not going to let it go," I say, and the words surprise me. "Ethan. He's not going to just walk away and leave us to deal with Vince's brother alone."

Derek stops, turns back to face me. The security light catches the sharp line of his jaw, the way his mouth is set. "He doesn't have a choice. He made his deal, it's dead, and he knows it."

"That's not how Ethan works." I finally let my hand drop from my belly, and I feel the absence of that warmth immediately. "He's a fixer. He's always been a fixer. He sees a problem and he has to solve it, even if it's not his to solve anymore."

Derek's eyes narrow, and I can see him running the calculations—the same way he did on the bus, the same way he does every time the world threatens to close in. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying he's not done." I look past Derek, at the dark road where Ethan's taillights disappeared. "He's going to try something. Something stupid. Something that puts him in the line of fire he thinks he's pulling off us."

The garage fan rattles behind us, and I can smell the rain that hasn't fallen yet, that ozone promise hanging in the air. Derek steps closer, his hand finding my elbow, grounding me. "Then we don't let him."

"We can't stop him." The words come out raw. "He's not ours to stop anymore. He made his choice, and I made mine, and the only thing we can do is—"

Headlights sweep across the lot.

Both of us turn. The sedan is back, but it's not Ray's black car. It's Ethan's—the same button-down visible through the windshield, the same tired set to his shoulders. He cuts the engine, steps out, and the security light catches the new thing in his hand: a folded piece of paper, creased down the middle.

"I couldn't do it," he says, and his voice is rough, like he's been arguing with himself the whole drive. "Couldn't just leave you here to deal with this alone." He holds out the paper. "This is where Vince's brother operates. The depot, the real one, not the old one. He uses a warehouse on the docks now."

Derek doesn't take it. His hand stays on my elbow, and I can feel the tension running through his arm like a live wire. "Why are you giving us this?"

"Because I'm going to talk to him myself." Ethan's jaw is set, and I can see the thing in his eyes that I put there weeks ago—that hope, that desperate need to be the one who saves me. "I'm going to go to the warehouse, alone, and I'm going to tell him that the deal is back on. That I'll give him whatever he wants—the money, the information, my silence—if he leaves Maya alone."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "Ethan, no."

"It's not your call." He looks at me, and for a second I see the man I used to love, the one who brought me lattes I never finished, the one who forgot my birthday but never forgot my coffee order. "You chose him. I get that. But that doesn't mean I get to stop caring about what happens to you. And right now, the only thing standing between Vince's brother and you is a dead deal and a mechanic with a crowbar."

Derek's hand tightens on my elbow, and I can feel the muscle in his arm jump. "You go to that warehouse alone, you don't come back."

"Maybe." Ethan's smile is hollow. "But at least she will."

He turns, and I watch him walk back to his car, the paper still in his hand. The engine turns over, the headlights sweep across the lot, and I can feel the baby flutter against my palm as I press it to my belly.

Derek's hand is on my shoulder, and I can hear him breathing, steady and controlled. "Let him go," he says, and his voice is low, almost gentle. "He's made his choice."

The taillights pull away, and I watch them shrink, and I can't tell if the weight in my chest is grief or fear or something I don't have a name for yet. The crib is waiting inside, the ultrasound is in Derek's pocket, and somewhere out there, Ethan is driving toward a man who wants me dead.

The words hang between us, and I watch Derek's face shift through a dozen micro-expressions I can't parse. He's watching Ethan's taillights disappear, but I know he's already thinking about the warehouse, about what comes next. His hand is still on my elbow, grounding me, and I can smell the motor oil on his skin, the familiar scent that started all of this.

"We should go after him." My voice comes out steady, but there's a tremor underneath it. "Before he does something stupid."

Derek turns to face me, his jaw tight. "We will. But not yet. We need a plan, we need—"

"No." I cut him off, and I feel the word land between us like a stone. "We need to do something first. Something I need you to do before we go anywhere."

His brow furrows, and I watch his eyes scan my face, searching for the tell. "What?"

The garage fan rattles behind us, pushing warm air against my back. I can hear the distant hum of the highway, the crickets starting their evening chorus. And I can feel the weight of what I'm about to ask sitting in my chest, heavy and hot, like something I've been carrying for weeks without knowing it.

"I need you to fuck me like Ethan did." The words come out flat, deliberate, and I watch Derek's face go still. "In the alley. I need you to give me that, so I can stop carrying it."

Derek doesn't move. The security light catches the sharp line of his jaw, the way his mouth is set. "Maya—"

"I'm serious." My hand finds his chest, pressing flat against the worn cotton of his shirt. I can feel his heartbeat under my palm, steady and fast. "Every time I close my eyes, I'm back there. I feel his hands on me, his weight, the way he took what he wanted. And I can't move past it unless you take it back. Unless you give me something stronger to replace it with."

His hand covers mine, rough and warm. "You want me to hurt you."

"I want you to own me." The words scrape out of my throat. "I want you to take me the way he did, but with a difference. I want to be the one who's choosing it. I want to look at you and know that you're the one doing it, not him."

Derek's breath comes out slow, measured. He looks at me for a long moment, and I can see the war happening behind his eyes—the part of him that wants to say no, that wants to shelter me from everything that's ever hurt me, and the part that understands what I'm really asking for.

"You're sure." It's not a question. It's a confirmation.

"I've never been more sure of anything."

He takes my hand and pulls me into the garage, past the workbench, past the crib waiting in the corner, past the ultrasound picture still in his pocket. The bare bulb casts hard light on the cracked vinyl floor, and the window fan rattles, pushing warm, dusty air across my skin as he walks me backward until my hips hit the workbench.

His hands find my waist, and he lifts me onto the scarred metal surface. The edge digs into the backs of my thighs, and I can feel the grease and grime of a hundred repairs beneath my palms. He steps between my legs, and his hands are already at the button of my jeans, working it open with a practiced efficiency that makes my breath catch.

"This is what you want?" His voice is low, rough, and I can hear the strain in it. "You want me to take you like he did?"

"Yes." The word is barely a breath. "I want you to take me like you're the only one who gets to."

He pulls my jeans down my thighs, and I lift my hips to help him. The denim catches on my shoes, and he kneels to work them off—one shoe, then the other—and I watch the top of his head, the sandy hair mussed from the day, the grease still under his nails. He looks up at me from between my legs, and his blue eyes are dark, hungry, and something else—something reverent.

He pulls my panties aside, and I feel the cool air against my skin, the slick heat of my own body responding before I've even decided to want it. His fingers find me, and I gasp at the contact, the way he strokes me open like he's reading a map he's memorized a thousand times.

"You're already wet." His voice is a growl, and I can feel the vibration of it against my thigh. "That's good. That's how I want you."

He stands, and his hands find my hips, pulling me to the edge of the workbench. I can feel his cock hard against my thigh through his jeans, and I reach for his belt, but he catches my wrist, pinning it to the metal surface.

"No." His voice is quiet, but there's iron in it. "This is me taking you. You don't get to do anything but feel."

The words hit me like a current, and I feel my body flood with heat. He undoes his belt one-handed, and I watch him free himself, the length of him thick and hard in the bare light. He steps closer, and I feel the blunt head of him pressing against my entrance, not pushing in, just there, a promise and a threat.

"Tell me you want it." His thumb finds my clit, circles it once, and I shudder. "Tell me you want me to take you."

"I want it." My voice cracks. "Derek, please—"

He pushes into me in one stroke, and I cry out at the stretch, the fullness, the way he fills me to the hilt. The workbench scrapes against the concrete as he drives into me, and I can feel the echo of it in my teeth, in my spine, in the place where he's buried so deep I can't tell where he ends and I begin.

"Look at me." His hand finds my jaw, tilts my face up. "I want you to see who's doing this to you."

I meet his eyes, and I watch the way they darken as he thrusts into me—hard, punishing, but not cruel. There's a difference. I can feel it in the way his hands hold my hips, the way his thumb strokes my clit with every other stroke, the way his gaze never leaves mine even as he fucks me into the workbench.

"He took you in an alley." His voice is ragged, scraped clean. "He took you without asking, without caring, without knowing your name. But I know your name, Maya. I know your favorite coffee order, the way you bite your lip when you're thinking, the sound you make when you're about to come."

I can feel the heat building, coiling low in my belly. His thrusts are relentless, each one driving me closer to the edge, and I can hear the wet sound of him moving inside me, the slap of skin against skin, the rattle of the fan like a heartbeat.

"I know you're carrying our baby." His voice breaks on the word. "I know you're the strongest person I've ever met. And I know that when you come, it's my name you'll say. Not his. Mine."

He drives into me harder, and I feel my orgasm cresting, rising like a wave I can't stop. My fingers find the edge of the workbench, gripping the scarred metal, and I can feel the baby flutter against my belly, a tiny echo of the rhythm he's setting.

"Say it," he growls. "Say my name."

"Derek." The word tears out of me as I come, my cunt clenching around him, and I watch his face go slack with the force of it, his own release following mine, hot and thick, filling me. I feel it in my thighs, in my belly, in the place where he's still buried, and I hold his gaze the whole time, letting him see me fall apart.

He stays inside me until the shudders pass, and then he pulls out slowly, his hands still on my hips, steadying me. I can feel his cum leaking out of me, running down my thigh, and I don't move to clean it up. I want to feel it. I want to feel the proof of what just happened, the way it replaces the memory of the alley with something new.

His forehead drops to mine, and I can feel his breath, hot and uneven. "You okay?"

I nod, and my hand finds his, pressing it against the swell of my belly, where the baby is still fluttering. "I'm better than okay. I'm ready."

He looks at me, and I can see the question in his eyes—ready for what? And I answer it with my own, steady and sure. "Let's go get Ethan. Before he gets himself killed."

My hand closes around the keys before I've finished the thought, the metal warm from the workbench, still carrying the heat of the afternoon. The garage door is eight steps away, and I'm already moving toward it, the weight of the keys grounding me, giving me something to hold onto that isn't the image of Ethan's taillights disappearing.

Derek's hand catches my arm, not hard, but enough to stop me. "Where do you think you're going?"

"With you. To get him." I turn to face him, and the keys dig into my palm. "You're not driving alone into that warehouse, Derek. Not after everything we just did."

He looks at me for a long moment, and I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes — the part of him that wants to argue, to protect me from whatever's waiting at that depot, and the part that knows I won't back down. His jaw works once, twice, and then he nods, slow and deliberate.

"Fine. But you stay in the truck until I know what we're walking into."

"Like hell I will." My voice comes out sharper than I meant it to, and I see his eyebrows lift. "I didn't survive the alley just to sit in the cab while you get yourself killed. We do this together, or we don't do it at all."

He studies me, and something in his expression shifts — not anger, not frustration, but something closer to pride. His hand slides from my arm to my wrist, and he pries my fingers open, taking the keys from my palm. His thumb traces the crease they left behind.

"Then at least let me drive." His voice is low, almost gentle. "You're shaking."

I look down at my hands, and he's right — there's a fine tremor running through them, the aftermath of what we just did, of the workbench and his hands and the way he filled me until I couldn't remember where I ended and he began. I let him take the keys, and I feel the weight of them leave my palm like a small surrender.

"I'm not shaking from fear." I say it quietly, and I watch his eyes darken. "I'm shaking because I've never wanted anything the way I want to walk into that warehouse with you and end this."

He doesn't answer with words. He just pulls me toward the door, his hand finding the small of my back, guiding me out of the garage apartment and into the cooling evening air. The security light catches his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his mouth is set with purpose.

The truck is parked where he left it, a dusty blue Ford with a dent in the passenger door and a toolbox rattling in the bed. He opens the passenger side for me, and I climb in, the seat worn and cracked, smelling of grease and old coffee and him. The keys turn in the ignition, and the engine rumbles to life, a sound that vibrates through the floorboards and up into my bones.

He backs out of the lot, and I watch the garage shrink in the side mirror — the bare bulb still burning in the window, the crib waiting in the corner, the ultrasound picture still in his pocket. I can feel the baby flutter against my belly, a tiny reminder of what we're fighting for.

"You know he's probably already there." I say it into the cab's quiet, watching the streetlights slide across his face. "Ethan. He's probably already at the warehouse, doing something stupid."

"I know." Derek's hands are steady on the wheel, his knuckles white. "That's why we're going to be faster."

He reaches over and finds my hand, pulling it onto his thigh, holding it there like a promise. The engine hums beneath us, and the road unspools ahead, dark and endless, and I can feel the weight of what we're driving toward pressing against my chest.

"Whatever happens," I say, and my voice cracks on the last word, "we do it together."

He squeezes my hand, and I watch his profile in the passing streetlights, the set of his jaw, the way his thumb traces circles on my knuckles. "Together," he echoes, and the word lands between us like a vow.