Red places a hand on my shoulder, pulling me from my inner thoughts. “I’ve arranged for some larger items to be delivered to the clubhouse,” she tells me.
She points at the rocking chair across the shop. It’s padded with grey cushions, and I smile, picturing Hell in it whilst she nurses our baby girl. “I ordered the rocking chair because she’s been looking at them in magazines recently. I’ve also ordered a crib, some drawers, and a changing table.” She turns to look at me. “She’s going to fucking love it all.”
“Thanks, Red. I owe you. I wouldn’t have even known where to start with all this. Who’d have thought a tiny baby would need so much stuff?”
I start working on the nursery, knowing that soon enough she’ll be here and my entire world will shift again. Hopefully, in the right direction, providing I don’t fuck it up.
The bigger pieces are being delivered tomorrow, so I need to make some progress today. It’s been a long time since I’ve done any decorating myself. Usually, I’d just hire someone and let them handle it.
But this feels different.
This isn’t just another room.
I want this to be from me, something personal. Something my daughter will grow up in, knowing her dad built it for her. A safe space, not just for her, but for Hell too. Somewhere she can sit, breathe, and maybe feel at peace.
I focus on the mural in front of me. I’ve always been good at art, even designing my own tattoos over the years.
I take a step back, a brush in one hand and the paint in the other. I stare at my handiwork. In the centre of the wall, the words‘Dream Big, Little One’stretch out in soft, sweeping letters, bold but gentle all at once. Daisies bloom from the skirting board, their delicate white petals and golden centres climbing upward in twisting vines. The stems curl and weave around the lettering as if they’ve grown there naturally, framing each word in a wild, effortless embrace.
Between the flowers, tiny bees hover mid-flight, their wings caught in motion. One larger bee drifts lower than the rest, leaving behind a faint dotted trail that loops playfully before settling just above the last letter, as if it’s claimed it as its own.
ROCHELLE
Drifter’s popped his head into the room on and off over the last couple days, but I’m starting to go stir-crazy just sitting here, twiddling my thumbs. The pains haven’t really changed, so I might as well get up and move around.
And besides . . . we need to talk.
Drifter and I can’t keep dancing around this. We have to figure out how this is going to work.
I hear banging in the room next to me. Intrigued, I head that way to investigate. I push the door open, and I frown. There, in the centre of the room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, is Drifter. He’s got one hand in his hair, looking ready to rip it out at the roots. And in the other is an instruction manual. Over his knees are two pieces of wood.
I smirk as a frustrated growl escapes him. DIY has never been his thing.
I clear my throat, and his head snaps up. “What are you doing?” he asks, pushing everything from his knees and getting to his feet.
I bat his hands away before he can guide me back to bed and step further into the room. “I’m fine,” I say, my hand resting against my bump as I do a slow three-sixty. My eyes settle on the painted mural, and I inhale sharply. It’s stunning.
I step closer, trailing my fingers over the letters, and I suddenly feel overcome with emotion.
“Do you like it?” he asks, hesitation lacing his tone.
I quickly swipe away my happy tears and turn to him, nodding. “I love it,” I whisper.
I head over to the rocking chair in the corner, admiring the fluffy blanket draped over it. The bees and daisies on it match the mural. I can’t believe how much effort he’s gone to.
He closes the gap between us, slipping a hand in mine. “Try it,” he says, “It’s so comfortable.”
I lower into the rocking chair, and he pulls the footrest out. He gently takes my left foot and lifts it, placing it carefully on the rest. He repeats the move with my right foot, and my heart melts a little more.
“You did all this by yourself?” I ask, looking at everything in the room from the change table to the stuffed toys on the drawers.
He smiles proudly. “I wanted to have everything set up before I showed you,” he says, staring where screws and wood are scattered on the floor. “But, yeah, she needed somewhere unique just for her.” He gives a bashful smile. “But flat pack furniture isn’t my strong point,” he admits, running his hand over the back of his neck.
I smile then take a breath before saying, “We need to talk.”
His smile fades, and his eyes go to the floor. I feel like a bitch for breaking the happy vibes. “Yeah, of course.”
“We need to figure out what our relationship will look like when the baby comes.”
