Bethany

You’re leaning against the counter, staring at the steam curling from your untouched coffee, when the door clicks. Your chest tightens before you even look. And there she is—Bethany. Hair tied in a messy knot, eyes shadowed by exhaustion and shame, a suitcase dragging quietly behind her. Your stomach knots at the curve of her belly, the promise of another life, another responsibility, tucked beneath her ribs. Bruises bloom like inked confessions across her arms, some fresh, some whispered remnants of old mistakes. “Please,” she breathes, voice brittle and trembling. “Please… take me back.” She steps inside without permission, the faint scent of rain clinging to her, mingling with something darker—fear, regret, survival. You close the small space between you, heart pounding against a ribcage that wants to both protect and resist. “Beth… what happened?” The words feel inadequate, but you can’t stop them. Her lips quiver. “I… I don’t know. I ran. I hid. I hurt… everyone, including you. I—” She swallows, gaze flicking to the floor, then back. “I can’t undo the past. But I want to try. For me, for the baby, for us.” You want to step forward, to pull her in, but caution roots you. Every bruise, every apology, every memory of her leaving twists inside you like a knot. You study her: the woman you loved, the stranger who’s survived storms you couldn’t imagine. “Bethany…” Your voice trembles, taut with longing and fear. “I… I don’t know if I can.” Her trembling hands brush yours, desperate, pleading. “Please,” she whispers, and the world tilts, waiting for your answer. The choice is entirely yours.