The second she told me, I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t think. I’d needed to touch her, to hold her. To make her feel what I couldn’t put into words. I’d poured it all into her. Every breath, every heartbeat, every desperate second I thought I’d lost her. I made love to her like a man who’d been drowning and finally hit shore.
Knowing she was pregnant did something to me. Something primal, like my body was overwhelmed with the need to feel her, protect her, worship her.
I’d kissed her belly. Whispered to it like an idiot. Didn’t care thatshe laughed at me through her tears. She looked at me like she was trying to memorise the moment, and fuck, I knew then. I’d never be the same.
It almost broke me when she kept apologising. She kept saying it wasn’t planned. That she truly forgot her pill until she realised it on the plane. That she hadn’t meant for this to happen.
It didn’t matter. It wasn’t her fault.
I’d been dragging her around the world like a man possessed. Barely giving her space to breathe, let alone track what her body was doing. I’d barely thought anything of it when she left her pill behind, thought it was an easy fix. Hell, she was probably already pregnant at that point because, Jesus, I’d been all over her. Every time she walked into a room, I lost my mind. I couldn’t keep my hands off her. So no, I wasn’t blameless. I should have helped her more. Should have been more attuned to what she needed.
But I didn’t give a single fuck how it happened. I cared that it was her. That this sharp, beautiful, whip-smart, strong-as-hell woman was carrying my child, and I couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone else. I think I’d known that a while. Fuck, I’d even pictured it.
She shifted in her sleep, cheek brushing against my chest. I ran a hand through her hair, gently brushing it from her face. God, she was beautiful.
I’d told her, way back when we first got together, that all I’d ever wanted was someone who got me. Someone to share this life with. A wife, a kid in the stands, watching with pride. And now…she was here.Theywere.
There was no plan. No perfect timing. But it didn’t scare me. It was firing me up. I always knew I’d be a dad someday. ?
I didn’t know how the hell we’d tell her parents. Christ, that was going to be a conversation. But mine? My mum would be buying baby clothes before Kate even hit her second trimester. I couldn’t wait to tell her.
She murmured something, deep in sleep, then curled tighter into me. Like she was tucking herself beneath my skin. Like she finally felt safe.
I smiled as I pressed a soft kiss to her temple. “Good night, baby,” I whispered. “Both of you.”
And as the reality set in, I kept picturing it. The future. Her watching from the stands with a bump. Her lying on a hotel bed, a baby on her chest, sun spilling through the window. Bleary-eyed mornings. Quiet feeds in the dark. Long-haul flights with our child asleep between us. My family. Our family.
I was all in. Every beat of me. We just had to plan our next move. ?
Chapter Forty-Eight
Kate
Canton, Cardiff—September
The familiar smellhit me first—scented candles and that same bloody floor cleaner I’d forgotten to cancel the subscription for months ago. At this point, I was basically in a pyramid scheme that I couldn’t get out of. My house had always smelled like that: calm, controlled, like the version of me who used to run her life on spreadsheets and colour-coded planners, terrified of letting anything slip.
Aside from my birth control, apparently.
I stood in the middle of my small lounge and looked around at the sea of boxes, bubble wrap, and old memories. It was a mess. I think my eye actually started twitching.
Boxes half-packed. My framed doctorate leaning against the wall. My throw pillows in a pile like they’d lost their purpose. It all felt surreal. And stranger still was bringing Jordan here, knowing we weren’t staying.
He’d insisted on helping me pack my old life up. I think he was curious to see it for himself. Walk through the rooms where I built this version of me. The one before him. But the truth was, despite this house being my new beginning at one time, I’d lived there less than a year, so the sentimentality just wasn’t there. It was more about what it represented. This house was the first big thing I’dbought alone. A badge of honour for my newly single life and independence.
I wasn’t taking much, just what mattered. The rest was going into storage. I didn’t have much sentimental stuff. I’d binned most of it in a clear-out after the divorce. But now I was moving into Jordan’s flat in London until we could find something bigger for when the baby arrived. In the weeks after I told him I was pregnant, we’d spoken at length about everything. Where we’d live, how we’d take the baby with us on the road. How he couldn’t wait to become a dad. I don’t know why I expected him to be anything less than amazing. Maybe self-doubt was hard wired into me by now. That expectation that once things got hard, people left. But the reality with Jordan couldn’t have been more different. The day after, he couldn’t stop touching me and smiling. He’d insisted on coming with me to the doctor’s appointment that confirmed it, and held my hair back through every mad dash of morning sickness.
I must have been staring into oblivion with my thoughts. Jordan had been watching me for a while before he asked, “You okay?” as he filled a box with some old books destined for the charity shop.
“Yeah, it just feels weird. Packing up all this again…I’m not sad, though.” I shook my head with a gentle smile.
“You’re allowed to be sad, you know. You worked hard for all this. Just because you’re moving on to something better doesn’t mean you can’t feel sad.”
I got up off the floor and moved toward him. I slinked my arms around his neck and looked into his eyes. “I used to sit in here alone most nights, wondering if I’d ever find this ever again.” I sighed. “And now the man of my dreams is helping me pack it all up.” I looked up into those big brown eyes of his.
“Well, I am the stuff dreams are made of,” he said with a cheeky glint in his eyes. Then he kissed me. Slowly, perfectly. Just to remind me that I wasn’t giving up. I was moving on. Finding a new dream.
I’d worked so hard for this place. Built it brick by metaphorical brick. Every room held a version of me. The woman who was independent. Who could hang shelves and wallpaper, and pretend it didn’t sting when her marriage quietly crumbled. The woman who thoughtindependence meantnotneeding anyone. Now I was packing it all up. Not because I hadn’t loved this life. But because I’d finally found something I loved more. Someone I loved more.
