And that realisation is playing on my mind.
We’ve had sex before. Plenty of it. Messy, desperate, passionate, reckless sex. Sex that made me feel wanted. Claimed. Safe in his strength. But never this. Never slow. Never careful. Never with him watching my face instead of my body, waiting for permission I didn’t even know I needed to give.
Last night, he didn’t take anything from me.
He let me choose.
I turn my head on the pillow and stare at the empty space beside me. The faint warmth is still there, like a ghost of him. My body feels different this morning. Not sore. Not shaken, just aware. Grounded, like something inside me has shifted into place.
I didn’t panic.
I didn’t freeze.
I didn’t zone out.
All the things I was worried would happen, didn’t. And when I think about that, my eyes sting. Because for so long, I was convinced that part of me was gone forever. That whatever Liam stole from me had taken my ability to want, to enjoy, to feel safe in my own skin.
But last night proved something else.
Healing isn’t loud. It doesn’t appear suddenly. There are no fireworks or celebrations. Sometimes, it’s just a quiet moment where you realise you weren’t afraid.
And somehow, without saying it out loud, Kade understood that this wasn’t about sex at all.
It was about trust. About being seen. About him choosing to stay exactly where I needed him—no closer, no farther—until I was ready to close the distance myself.
I press a hand to my stomach, feeling the familiar curve beneath my palm. Our baby shifts, a gentle roll, like a reminder.
Maybe this is what moving forward looks like.
Not forgiveness or forgetting. Just choosing, one careful step at a time, to let something good exist alongside the pain.
I inhale deeply, releasing it slowly before swinging my legs over the side of the bed and hauling myself upright. I grab Kade’s shirt from the chair, press the soft cotton to my nose, and breathe him in before tugging it on and padding downstairs.
The low hum of his voice reaches me before the kitchen does. I push the door open gently and smile at the sight of him—tea towel slung over his shoulder, a pan of bacon in one hand, grippers in the other. I lean against the doorframe, watching as he piles crispy bacon onto a plate of fresh pancakes.
“What a view,” I say eventually.
His head snaps up, eyes narrowing with amused suspicion.
“Food,” I add, smirking, “Obviously.”
“I was gonna bring this up to bed,” he replies, wiping his hands on the towel.
“Nice idea,” I say, sliding into a chair. “But it’s my last day with Mrs. Wainwright.”
“Last day?” he asks, carrying both plates to the table.
I nod. “Before I have the baby. We agreed no maternity pay.” I take a bite of bacon, the crunch grounding me. “Mostly because I don’t know if there’ll even be a job there when I’m ready to go back. And,” I hesitate, “I think she hired me out of kindness more than necessity. I don’t think there was ever a real position.”
His brow furrows in that familiar way it does when he’s worrying over something he can’t fix with his hands.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asks gently.
“I’ve got enough savings to take a few months with the baby,” I say. “After that, I’ll look for something new.”
He presses his lips together, eyes dropping to his plate.
“Say it,” I tell him softly.
