He exhales. “I don’t know how to help without sounding like I’m taking over,” he admits. “This is your choice, I know that.”
“But you’re worried about me going back to work,” I guess. We’d talked about me being a stay-at-home mum when we first talked about trying for a baby.
“The bank account belongs to you as much as it does to me,” he mutters. “You only removed your name, but you’re still entitled to it.”
“Kade,” I say quietly, “you put every penny into that account.”
He nods once. “For our future.” His voice is steady, certain. “And I want to take care of my child, Eden, so it’s there if you need it.”
Then he tucks into his breakfast, as if that’s all there is to say.
I smile to myself. The fact that he still doesn’t push, still gives me space, still respects my boundaries.
It settles something warm and solid in my heart.
The bell in the old clock chimes, and I know without looking that it’s going to hurt more than I expected.
Mrs. Wainwright closes the ledger slowly, like she’s giving me time to brace myself, then looks up at me over the rim of her glasses. Her mouth softens first. That’s always the giveaway.
“So,” she says, folding her hands together, “this is it.”
I swallow. “This is it.”
She stands, walking around the counter with surprising steadiness for a woman who insists she’s ‘ancient’. She stops infront of me and tilts her head, studying me like she always does, like she’s filing me away into memory.
“When you walked into this shop,” she says quietly, “you were broken.”
My chest tightens.
“You didn’t think anyone noticed,” she continues. “But I did. You flinched when people stood too close. You apologised for things that weren’t your fault. You looked like you were waiting for something bad to happen every time the door opened.”
I blink hard.
“And now?” she says, her voice warming. “Now, you laugh. You argue with me. You keep me in line. You don’t look scared all the time anymore.”
I press my lips together, emotion swelling dangerously close to the surface.
“I’ve watched you grow here, Eden,” she adds. “And I’ve watched you soften again since that biker started hanging around.”
I let out a weak laugh. “You always call him that.”
“Well,” she shrugs, “he might not wear that leather thing anymore, but at heart, he’ll always be a biker.”
I glance around the shop, at the shelves, the worn counter, the window where I’ve watched the world go by. “He’s been good,” I admit. “Really good.”
Her eyes sharpen gently. “And?”
I hesitate, then the words spill. “We spent the weekend together.” Her brows lift, but she says nothing, just waits. “It wasn’t . . . rushed,” I say. “Or messy. It was careful. Gentle.” My voice drops. “But now, I don’t know what it means.”
She nods once. “And that scares you.”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Because I don’t know how he feels. And I don’t know if sleeping together means we’re back. And I’m terrified to ask in case the answer isn’t what I want.”
Mrs. Wainwright studies me for a long moment.
“Is that what you want?” she asks. “To be back together?”
The answer hits me so hard it almost knocks the air from my lungs. “Yes.” The word is immediate, certain.
