And there he is.
Nick.
My hand shoots out for the counter because, apparently, my legs have forgotten their job description. The whole bakery tilts sideways, and I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
He's exactly the same. Silver hair that catches the winter light coming through the windows. Those hands I've dreamed about every single night for eight months. The face I've memorized in the dark hours when sleep won't come and the baby won't settle.
He’s across the bakery and in front of me before my brain can catch up, his hands on my arms, steadying me with a touch that feels like coming home and unraveling at the same time.
"Easy," he says, and oh, God, his voice. It's exactly like I remembered. Exactly like it's sounded in every dream, every moment of wondering if he ever thought about me at all.
I have to close my eyes, because if I keep looking at him, I’m going to do something ridiculous, like cry, or kiss him, or maybe both at once.
He’s steering me somewhere, and suddenly I’m sitting in one of the chairs by the window. He kneels before me, and the whole thing is so surreal I half expect to wake up and find out I’ve finally lost it for good.
"Talk to me, Samantha," he says, and there's something in his voice that sounds like worry and guilt and about a thousand other things I can't name.
I open my eyes and look down at him.
Then I haul off and slap him.
The sound snaps through the quiet bakery, and my palm stings, but I don’t care. Eight months of fear, loneliness, and wondering what I did wrong all pour out in that one slap.
"You should have stayed where you were," I say, and my voice shakes with anger I've been holding back for months. "The last time you came here, you caused nothing but trouble."
That’s not true. Not really. Because as scared as I’ve been, as many nights as I’ve spent crying or jumping at shadows or wondering what kind of mess I’ve dragged into this world, I’ve fallen head over heels for the baby in my belly. And somewherealong the way, despite every reason not to, I fell for the man kneeling in front of me too.
Which, of course, just makes all of this sting even more.
"I deserve worse than that," he says quietly, and the baby goes absolutely wild. She's moving in ways I didn't know were possible, like she's trying to reach through my skin toward him.
No. That’s ridiculous. Babies don’t recognize voices from the womb. She can’t possibly know her father’s voice when he’s been gone since she was nothing more than a handful of cells.
But she’s moving like she does know. Like she’s been waiting for this moment just as much as I have, even if I’d never say it out loud.
"If you’re here because you found out I’m pregnant and feel like you have to be, don’t," I say, pushing myself to my feet. It takes more effort than I’d like, and when he offers his hand, I ignore it. I need to do this on my own. Need to prove I can stand without him, even if every part of me is screaming to let him help.
I start to walk away, because if I stay, I’m going to break. His hand catches mine, gentle enough that I could pull away if I really wanted to.
"It's taken everything in me to stay away, Samantha," he says.
I stop. Turn to look at him. The worst part is, I believe him. There’s something in his eyes, raw, honest, hurting, that tells me he’s not making any of this up.
"Why would you want to stay away?" The question comes out smaller than I meant. "What was so wrong with that night that you had to run?"
Something shifts in his face. Pain, maybe. Regret, definitely.
"Is that what you think?" He moves then, dropping to his knees in front of me, his large hands bracketing my swollenstomach with a gentleness that makes my breath catch. "That something was wrong with that night?"
The baby kicks. Hard. Right against his palm.
I watch his face change as he feels it. Wonder, then awe, then something that looks a lot like grief.
Then he leans in and kisses my belly, and I should stop him. I should tell him he has no right to touch me like this, to just walk back into my life and act like he has any claim to the child I’ve been protecting on my own for months.
But it feels right. Like my whole body is finally waking up after months of running on backup power. Like puzzle pieces finally clicking into place.
"I thought I was protecting you by staying away," he whispers against my stomach. I feel the words as much as hear them. "I was a fool. I've got a lot of explaining to do. If you'll let me, I'll spend an eternity making up for the mess I've made. Will you give me that chance?"
