It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Jonathan knew that much.

He'd only been out for a week—just enough time to get his bearings after another short stint in lockup. Three months this time. Some asshole at the bar wouldn't shut up, mouthing off about something Jonathan didn't even remember, and his temper had snapped. One punch turned into a beatdown, and the cops were called before he even had a chance to light his cigarette and walk away.

Now he was out, squinting against the sunlight filtering through the trees at the local park, wondering how he'd let Quinn drag him to a damn two-year-old's birthday party. The smell of charcoal and cheap hot dogs hung in the air, mingling with the laughter of kids running around the playground. Quinn's little boy, Mateo, sat on his dad's lap, babbling as Quinn fed him tiny bites of cake.

Jonathan leaned back on the splintered picnic bench, stretching his legs out, one foot tapping restlessly against the ground. He was wearing his usual ripped jeans, a faded band tee, and a leather jacket that had seen better days. The sun beat down on his messy black hair, beads of sweat gathering on his forehead, but he didn't bother wiping them away. The blunt behind his ear was itching to be lit, but he was holding off—for now.

Quinn glanced over, grinning. "Ayo, welcome back to the land of the living, man. Got out just in time for the little potato's birthday."

Jonathan snorted, flicking a crumb off his knee. "Yeah, yeah. Anything for my bro." He squinted at Quinn, noticing the way his friend cradled Mateo with surprising tenderness. "Man, you really went full family guy on me. Another one on the way, huh?"

Quinn just shrugged, smiling as Mateo smeared cake on his shirt. "Life changes, bro. Gotta grow up sometime."

"Yeah, well, not for me," Jonathan muttered, lighting up the blunt after all. He took a long drag, letting the smoke sting his lungs before exhaling slowly. "Sucks being locked up, though. Three months and my bitch didn't even talk to me. Didn't answer one damn call."

Quinn shot him a look, something halfway between pity and annoyance. "Maybe you scared 'em off, Jon. Can't expect people to stick around when you're in and out all the time."

Jonathan rolled his eyes, leaning his head back to stare at the sky. "Yeah, well, they didn't have to act like I was dead. Ain't your girl friends with them? You hear anything?"

"Nah, she don't really talk about it. She's been busy with the baby and shit. But hey, they might come to the party. Thought I saw 'em in the parking lot earlier."

That caught Jonathan's attention. He straightened, looking toward the lot with a smirk creeping onto his face. "For real? Puta ain't answer my messages—guess I'll go ask what that's about."

He pushed himself up, flicking ash onto the ground, and started walking before Quinn could respond. The restless energy buzzed under his skin, half from the high and half from the thought of seeing you again. It wasn't just that he hadn't had sex in months—though that was definitely part of it. No, it was something about you specifically that always got to him, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

As he approached the parking lot, he spotted you by your car, looking around like you weren't sure if you really wanted to be here. Typical. Jonathan's lips twisted into a crooked grin, and he sauntered over, his movements loose and confident despite the tightness in his chest.

"Yo," he called out, voice low and rough, leaning against your car door. "You ignoring me now? Thought we were better than that."

You didn't turn immediately, and he took a second to really look at you. The first thing he noticed was how you looked more tired than usual—worn out and a little paler. But then his eyes trailed down, and he saw it—a small but unmistakable bump pressing against your shirt.

His face hardened, the grin dropping. "What the fuck is that?" he demanded, stepping closer and pointing at your stomach. You tensed, instinctively stepping back, but he followed, jaw clenched.

"No, no, no," he muttered, half to himself. "Ain't no way. You're not—" He cut himself off, a wild, angry look flashing across his face. "You serious right now? You been hiding this from me the whole time? What the hell were you thinking?"

Jonathan's hand twitched at his side, and his breathing grew heavier. Anger roiled inside him, mixing with something uncomfortably close to fear. He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to process the reality slapping him in the face. Instead, he let the anger take over.

He grabbed your arm, squeezing just hard enough to make you wince. "You think you can just show up here like nothing happened? Like you didn't disappear on me? You got some nerve," he growled, his voice low and bitter.

You kept your gaze down, avoiding his glare, and he hated that too. Hated how you wouldn't look at him, how you didn't fight back. "You're not running off just 'cause you're feeling all hormonal. We're talking about this, whether you like it or not."

His grip loosened, just enough to stop hurting, but his eyes never left your stomach. The realization hit him again, harder this time, and he couldn't stop the creeping panic clawing at his gut. A kid? His kid? He wasn't built for that shit. Hell, he didn't even take care of the first one he had. They couldn't have this baby.

The noise from the party seemed to fade into the background as he stared at you, the weight of your secret hanging heavy between you both. "You're not stupid enough to keep it are you?"