She gives a warm smile. “We run a group for partners tonight. It’s each Monday, five until half-past six. Why don’t you stick around.”
I nod because I want this to work. I want to understand.
The room is different to the one I’ve just left. It’s softer somehow. The chairs are arranged in a loose circle, not facing a desk or a board or anyone in charge. There’s no head of the table here. No hierarchy.
That alone makes me relax.
I hover near the door for a moment, hands shoved deep into my pockets, scanning the room like it might turn on me. There are six other men already seated, different ages, different builds. None of them look like bikers. No leather, no patches, no visible weapons.
They all look . . . tired.
One of them glances up and offers a small nod, a silent acknowledgment we’re all here for the same thing.
I take the empty chair nearest the wall.Old habits.
The facilitator—Mark, he introduces himself—waits until we’re settled before speaking. His voice is calm, steady. No authority in it, just presence.
“Welcome back to most of you,” he begins. “And hello to any new faces. I’ll just go over the rules quickly. No fixing,” he says pointedly. “No interrupting. No judgement. We listen. We speak if we want to. Silence is allowed.” He smiles around the circle. “Does anyone want to speak first, let the newbies know what we’re about?”
I swallow the anxiety down.
A man across from me clears his throat. “I’m Ben,” he says quietly. “My wife was assaulted by a colleague three years ago.” He stares at the floor. “I didn’t know how to touch her without feeling like I was hurting her again.”
Something twists in my chest.
Another man speaks next. “I’m Callum. My partner froze. I didn’t understand that at first.” He exhales shakily. “I thought freezing meant she didn’t fight hard enough. I hate myself for thinking that.”
My hands clench into fists.
One by one, they speak. Not dramatically, not looking for sympathy, just facts layered with shame, confusion, anger, fear. Men who thought loving harder would fix it. Men who thought silence meant rejection. Men who pushed when they should have stayed still. Men like me.
Every word lands somewhere inside me.
Mark’s gaze finally comes to me. “You don’t have to speak,” he says gently, “but if you want to, you can.”
The room goes quiet.
I stare at my hands for a long moment. They’re scarred, bruised. Hands that know how to hurt, how to protect, how to take control. But hands that failed her.
“I’m Kade,” I say eventually. “My partner was raped by someone I knew,” I continue, the word still sharp on my tongue. “I didn’t listen. Didn’t see the signs that were blaringly obvious now I know the truth,” I admit. “I accused her. I made it about my anger instead of her pain.” My voice cracks slightly, and I don’t bother hiding it. “So, she left.”
No one rushes to reassure me. No one tells me it’ll be okay. And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe.
“You’re here now,” Mark says softly.
I nod once. “I want to support her. She’s pregnant with my kid, so we’re gonna be in each other's lives forever. And I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me, I don’t expect her to, but I’d like to try and be better . . . for her.”
And for the first time since everything fell apart, I don’t feel like the biggest fuck-up in the room.
EDEN
A week has passed since the farmers’ show. Since I saw Kade. Since his big reveal. I thought I’d see him again by now. Expected it, even.
And if I’m honest with myself—really honest—I’m disappointed that I haven’t.
Mrs. Wainwright, however, has been more than happy to keep me updated. The way she talks about him, you’d think he’d single-handedly restored her faith in men everywhere. Her eyes light up whenever his name comes up.
The bell above the shop door chimes. I set the stock I’m unpacking aside and head out front, inhaling sharply when I see him.
