CHAPTER EIGHT #2
“I earned it. Look . . . about yesterday.”
I hold up a hand. “It’s fine. You don’t need to explain.”
“But I want to,” he cuts in. “It wasn’t how it looked. She turned up here expecting me to go to a business thing with her. I’m working with her father on some stuff.”
“Club stuff?” I ask.
He nods. “She wasn’t meant to be here. I left Diesel in charge of all that.”
“Okay.” It’s not like it’s my business anyway, and as much as I want to know how close they’ve gotten for her to think she can turn up here, I don’t probe further.
He hesitates, then gestures towards the house. “This is a big ask, but could I get cleaned up? I would’ve asked Martha, but I was genuinely afraid she’d follow me inside and murder me.”
Despite everything, a breathy laugh escapes me.
I glance back at the door then at him. If he’s inside getting cleaned up, he can’t show up at the class.
I hold out the key.
“Sure,” I say. “Just leave it with Mrs. Wainwright when you lock up.”
Relief flickers across his face. “Thanks.” And he heads inside.
The room smells faintly of must and disinfectant.
Plastic chairs are arranged in a loose circle, most of them already occupied by couples leaning into each other, hands linked, knees touching.
I take one of the empty seats near the edge and rest my bag at my feet, suddenly very aware of how alone I look.
I tell myself I don’t care.
I chose this.
The woman at the front claps her hands together with a bright, well-practised smile. She’s in her late forties, wearing a soft cardigan and sensible shoes—the sort of woman who looks like she’s delivered half the babies in the county.
“Morning, everyone,” she says. “I’m Jan, and I’ll be guiding you through the next few weeks. This class is about preparation, but more than that, it’s about support.”
Her gaze sweeps the room, lingering on couples, on hands resting protectively over bumps.
“Pregnancy can feel overwhelming,” she continues. “You’ll learn what’s happening to your body, what to expect during labour, and how to manage the emotional side of becoming a parent. No question is too small, no fear too silly.”
I swallow, rubbing my palms against my thighs.
“This is a safe space,” Jan adds gently. “For you . . . and for your partners.”
She moves on, chatting about breathing techniques, birth plans, what the sessions will cover.
I nod along, even take a few notes, but my attention keeps drifting to the empty chair beside me.
To the low murmur of voices. To the quiet reminder that this was never supposed to be something I did alone.
“And now,” Jan says brightly, clapping again, “I’d like everyone to partner up. Turn to the person you came with. If you’re here solo, don’t worry, we’ll make sure no one’s left out.”
Heat creeps up my neck.
I force my shoulders back and lift my chin. I’ll manage. I always do.
Then, the door opens.
I don’t even look at first, just register the change in air, the subtle shift in the room. Then boots sound against the floor, heavy, familiar.
My heart stumbles as I turn. Kade stands in the doorway, slightly out of breath, kutte still on, eyes scanning the room until they land on me. Relief flashes across his face before he schools it into something more cautious.
For a split second, I forget how to breathe.
Jan smiles at him. “You must be joining us?”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Sorry I’m late.”
He doesn’t look away from me as he walks over, pulls the empty chair beside mine, and sits. Close enough that our arms almost touch.
Almost.
I stare straight ahead, my pulse roaring in my ears, and against my will, something inside me eases. Just a fraction, like a knot loosening.
Jan beams. “Perfect timing. Go ahead and pair up.”
Kade shifts, angling his body towards mine, respectful. Careful.
“Guess I’m your partner,” he murmurs.
I risk a glance at him. He looks nervous, completely out of place in a room full of pastel posters and birthing charts.
And despite everything—despite the hurt, the anger, the mess of us—I’m almost glad I’m not sitting alone.
“We’re going to do something simple now,” says Jan. “Partners, if you’re comfortable, I’d like you to connect with your baby in a way that feels right. That might be a hand on the bump. It might be holding hands. There’s no pressure.”
The room fills with soft movement. Chairs creak as everyone gets comfortable.
I freeze.
Kade doesn’t move.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s watching me, not my stomach. His expression is careful, like he’s afraid one wrong move will send me running again.
Slowly, he lifts his hand and lets it hover between us.
Not touching, but close enough I can feel the heat.
“Is this okay?” he asks quietly.
I swallow and give a small nod.
His hand trembles slightly as he moves closer. His palm rests against the side of my bump, warm and solid and impossibly gentle.
My breath catches.
For a moment, there’s nothing. Just his hand. My heartbeat. The quiet hum of the room.
Then . . . a flutter, soft but unmistakable.
Kade inhales sharply.
“Did you . . .” His voice breaks. “Was that . . .”
I nod, my lips curling despite myself. “Yeah,” I whisper. “That was the baby.”
His eyes widen, and his hand shifts instinctively, as if to feel it again. Another tiny movement answers him, and this time, he actually gasps.
“Fuck,” he breathes, awe written all over his face. “Oh my god.”
I watch his expression change—shock, wonder, something dangerously close to joy—and my heart aches in a way that’s almost painful.
“It’s real,” he murmurs, more to himself than me.
I should pull away. I should remind myself why we’re here. Why I left. Why this is complicated.
But I don’t.
I let his hand stay right where it is. Just for a moment longer.
Because a traitorous part of my brain wonders if this means something. If it’s a sign, like the baby knows him. Like it recognises their dad and is responding to him in a way I can’t explain.
And for these few fragile minutes, we’re connected again.
Not as we were, but more than we’ve been in months.