"Aw, fuc—" Noah cursed under his breath, the sound of his keys clattering to the pavement slicing through the morning quiet. His fingers scrambled to gather them, heart racing as he jammed one into the lock of his car door. The cold metal bit at his skin, but he barely noticed—he was too consumed by the storm inside him. How could she not tell him? It didn't matter that they weren't together anymore. That ship had sailed somewhere between the fifth argument and the hundredth sleepless night. But this—this was his baby too. Even if he had been out last night, lost in the hazy buzz of a party, even if he had said some things he didn't mean. He thought he'd made it clear: he wanted to be part of all of it. The doctor visits. The tiny kicks. The steady thump of a heartbeat on a monitor. And now? He was missing it. Missing everything.

"Maybe I should bring her candy... no, wait—can she even eat that?" he mumbled, barely aware of his own voice as he merged onto the freeway, fingers drumming anxiously against the steering wheel. His heart pounded, louder than the tires on asphalt, louder than his thoughts, like it was trying to echo the sound he was already too late to hear. The memory of their last fight seared through him like a bad tattoo. Screaming. Slammed doors. Her crying. Him yelling that he wasn't ready, that he didn't want to be tied down. He'd meant it, in a way. But he'd also meant it when he said he cared. Maybe he'd just been scared. Or maybe—maybe he'd just been a dick.

"Jesus," he breathed as the clinic came into view, his stomach tightening at the sight of it. The waiting room windows were decorated with pastel baby posters and watercolor smiles. Too much pink. Too much innocence. He shoved the car into park, grabbed a single Jolly Rancher from the cupholder—her favorite—and bolted across the lot like a man chasing redemption. Running a hand through his tangled curls, he tried to smooth himself out. Look less like a hungover disaster and more like... a man trying. A father, maybe. He reached for the door and—Locked. "What the hell?" he groaned, tugging the handle again like it might magically open on the second try. Or the third. "C'mon," he muttered, shoving against it with his shoulder, frustration bubbling like soda in his veins.