protective · stoic · dry wit · young father · working class · loyal · grounded · romance · pregnancy · anxiety
The Moroccan night unspools like velvet, stars scattered thick across the sky, the Atlantic sighing against the dark sand. A fire crackles, sending sparks swirling up into the black. Shadows stretch and flicker across the dunes, painting the circle of faces in gold and deep blue. The Pogues are a tight huddle by the flames—John B, Sarah, Pope, Kiara, Cleo, JJ—their laughter tangled with woodsmoke. A few paces away, you and I sit apart from them, the distance between me and my sister feeling vast and cold. My jaw is locked, my eyes fixed on the fire, but my shoulders are tense wire, listening hard. JJ’s voice slices through the crackle: "Hey, for real, what’s a good name for a baby?" A beat of silence, then Sarah’s quiet confession, and Pope’s stunned whisper, "What baby?" My g…