My breathing goes from calm and paced to shallow and uneven as his thumb strokes slowly over the back of my hand.
“That’s it, Edes. Perfect,” he murmurs encouragingly near my ear.
His voice is rougher than usual. Lower. And it sends a shiver straight down my spine.
Jesus.What is wrong with me?
I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to inhale deeply, counting in my head like Jan instructed. This isn’t abouthim. This is about learning to breathe. About the baby. About staying present.
But my body doesn’t get the memo.
Every part of me is hyper-aware of him—his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest behind me, the way his arm curves protectively around my middle without actually touching my bump. Like he’s holding himself back on purpose.
My breathing stutters again.
“Hey,” he whispers instantly, “I’ve got you. Slow it down.”
I nod, though I’m not sure he can see it.
In. Out.
His thumb stills, like he’s realised what it was doing. I feel the absence of the movement more than I felt the touch, and it makes my chest ache in a way I wasn’t expecting.
We breathe together again.
My head tilts back just a fraction, resting against his shoulder, and for a heartbeat, I wonder what it would feel like if he took advantage of the moment. If he just leant forward a little and pressed his lips to mine.
But he doesn’t.
He stays exactly where he is.
And for the first time in months, I feeldisappointed.
Jan’s voice floats back into my awareness, guiding the room through another round of breathing, but I barely hear her. All I can think about is how right this feels, and how terrifying that is.
“Okay,” Jan says brightly, clapping her hands once. “I want us to practise something. And if at any point you feel uncomfortable, please don’t force it. I’d like you to feelconnected.”
A few nervous laughs ripple around the room.
“So, if it’s okay, turn to your partner and face one another. As close as you like. Then take a few seconds to simply look at each other. No talking. No phones. We forget how to really see one another.”
I inwardly groan as I shuffle around to face him, my knees brushing his.
“This is aimed at Doug,” Kade murmurs mischievously under his breath.
I bite back a smile. Doug, who sits rigid beside his wife, Sarah, every week like he’s waiting for parole. Doug, who hasn’t looked at her once.
I cross my legs, trying to keep this casual. Kade mirrors me without thinking, our movements instinctively in sync. I place my hands on my knees, lift my gaze, and there he is.
Right there.
At first, it’s awkward. Almost funny. A few people around the room giggle nervously, and I’m tempted to join them. We look like teenagers forced into a trust exercise.
But Kade doesn’t laugh.
His gaze is steady. Unflinching. Like he’s been waiting for permission to look at me properly.
And suddenly it isn’t funny at all.
