CHAPTER TWELVE
KADE
It’s not the heavy, suffocating silence we lived in before, but something gentler, careful. Like we’re both learning how to breathe in the same room again without flinching.
Eden and I have slipped into a rhythm I didn’t know was possible for us anymore. Coffee before antenatal class. Short walks when her back aches. Sitting at opposite ends of the sofa, close enough to feel each other’s presence but far enough not to cross lines neither of us is ready to redraw.
There’s no touching unless she initiates it.
No pushing.
No asking for more.
And it’s harder than anything I’ve ever done.
The group sessions are helping more than I expected. Sitting in a circle of men who look nothing like me on the surface but carry the same guilt, the same anger, the same helplessness has cracked something open inside my chest.
I’ve learned that silence isn’t strength. That fixing doesn’t make everything go away. That love doesn’t mean control.
Patience, apparently, is a skill. One I never bothered to learn before because I always took what I wanted and dealt with the fallout later.
Now, I wait.
I wait while Eden talks about the baby without looking at me.
I wait while she decides whether I’m invited into a moment or kept at arm’s length.
I wait while she figures out whether I’m safe again.
Some days, it feels like progress. Other days, it feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing one wrong step sends everything crashing down.
I miss her in ways that have nothing to do with sex. I miss how she used to reach for me without thinking. How she’d curl into my side for comfort.
Now, when our hands brush accidentally, she stills for half a second before deciding whether to pull away or let it happen. And every time she lets it happen, it feels like a victory I didn’t earn but won’t waste.
My kutte stays in the wardrobe. It used to be my armour, the thing that got me seen whenever I walked into a room. It was the badge of honour I thought mattered more than anything else in the world. The badge that brought other men to their knees before me. The badge that caused fear in their eyes.
And when I catch my reflection in shop windows now, I barely recognise myself.
The dark T-shirts have been replaced by lighter ones. My Levi’s are worn from wrangling sheep on the farm, not covered in oil spills or tattoo ink.
I can’t lie and say I don’t miss it. That I don’t crave the danger or the power. Or that feeling of the rumble of the bike beneath me, the freedom that offers, burns a hole in my chest. I find myself sketching at night when I’m alone and thinking of Eden. I draw her. I draw our baby.
And on the days when Eden glances my way, when she almost smiles before remembering she’s supposed to be careful, I know I’m doing the right thing.
I am becoming the man she deserves. The man I picture her with.
The dream of having our own place, a dog, and a white picket fence, it could happen. It’s not so impossible anymore.
I purchase two decaffeinated coffees. Since our regular meet-ups, I’ve switched. If she’s suffering, then I’m suffering with her.
When Eden walks in five minutes later, she steals my breath.
Every few days, she seems bigger than before. Her bump has taken on a beautiful curve now, enhancing her body in ways I can’t even put into words. And I love it.
She shrugs out of her jumper, the fitted top beneath clinging to her, and I have to fight the instinct to reach out and place a hand over her stomach. The baby’s so much more active now, especially at night, much to Eden’s dismay.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says, dropping into the chair opposite me and immediately slurping her coffee with a contented sigh. “I overslept.”
“Was he up all night again?” I ask.
She arches a brow. “First of all, we’ve discussed this. He might be a she. I don’t want you disappointed.”
I grin. “You know I don’t care what we have. She’ll be my absolute princess, and he’ll be my prince.”
“Either way, you’ll be wrapped around their finger,” she says, smiling. “But, yes, every hour on the hour, the little one was having a full-on disco in there. And now?” She sighs. “As still as the ocean on a summer’s day.”
“The midwife said that’s normal,” I remind her. “Your body’s just getting you used to less sleep.” I take a sip of my coffee. “You ready for today?”
She groans. “Birth plans. Labour talk. Not really.”
I place my hand on the table, not touching her, just there, an unspoken invitation. After a second, she takes it, and I close my fingers around hers.
“You’re going to do amazing,” I tell her quietly. “Today’ll help things make sense, get us ready. And if we’ve got questions, Jan’ll answer them.”
She nods, grateful. “I know. You’re right. It’s just . . . hearing it all laid out properly is still scary.” She hesitates. “Are you free for lunch after? Just to decompress?”
I hesitate, and she notices immediately.
“If you’re busy, it’s fine,” she adds quickly. “I know it’s short notice.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” I say carefully. “I’m meeting D.”
“Oh.” Her voice softens. “Right. Okay.”
“He’s coming to pick up my bike.”
She frowns. “Why?”
I shrug, keeping my tone light even though my chest tightens. “I’m not really using it much here. Everything’s within walking distance.”
She doesn’t respond straight away, just nods slowly, like she’s filing the information away somewhere important.
We arrive at the class, and Eden immediately goes to speak to Jan. I can tell she’s nervous today. The birth is closer now, more real, and the weight of it sits heavy on her shoulders.
I take my seat and glance around the room, my jaw tightening. The other men are exactly who I used to be. Some stare at their phones like they’re waiting for the whole thing to be over. Others sit stiff and detached, eyes unfocused, like this is happening around them instead of to them.
I hate that it took something so catastrophic—Eden getting hurt, almost losing her entirely—for me to understand what I had. How fragile it was. How precious.
Eden slips back into the seat beside me, her thigh brushing mine as she settles. The contact is brief, accidental, but it’s enough to snap me fully back into the room.
“Jan thinks a water birth is more than doable,” she says, smiling. There’s hope in it. Nervous, careful hope. “I just have to pray that the birthing pool’s free on that day. There are only three at the hospital.”
I nod slowly. She’s been circling the idea for weeks now, warming to it, picturing it. I know better than to dismiss something she’s quietly committed to.
“If you want a water birth,” I say quietly, turning to her, “I’ll make sure it happens.”
Her smile falters just a little. “How?”
I shrug, keeping my voice calm. “Leave it with me.”
She studies my face for a second, then turns back to the front as the class begins.
Jan talks us through the stages of labour. What to expect. What’s normal. What isn’t. I listen, committing every word to memory like it’s a survival manual.
An hour passes before Jan asks us to collect mats and move to the floor.
“Birthing partners,” she says, “sit first with your legs apart. Mums sit between their legs and rest back against them for support.”
I sit down, my heart pounding harder than it should. Eden moves carefully, lowering herself to her knees before easing back until she’s settled between my legs. She scoots closer, inch by inch, until her back presses fully into my chest.
The contact steals my breath.
I close my eyes briefly and inhale, the familiar scent of her fruity shampoo grounding me. It’s the closest we’ve been in a long time.
She reaches back, finds my hands, and threads her fingers through mine.
Jan’s voice cuts gently through the room. “Okay, mums, imagine a contraction starting to build. Partners, this is where you come in.”
Eden shifts slightly against me, her shoulders tensing.
“We’re going to practise breathing techniques,” Jan continues. “Slow, controlled breathing. Partners, you’ll help regulate it. Stay calm. Steady. You set the pace.”
I swallow. Me. Setting the pace.
Jan demonstrates first—long inhale through the nose, slow exhale through the mouth. “Count if it helps. In for four, out for six. Longer exhale helps the body release tension.”
Eden’s hand tightens around mine.
I lean forward slightly, careful not to crowd her. “Okay,” I murmur near her ear. “We’ll do it together.”
She nods once.
“In,” I say quietly. “Two . . . three . . . four.”
I feel her chest rise against mine.
“And out,” I continue, lowering my voice. “Two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction.
“Again,” Jan says.
We breathe again. And again.
With each breath, Eden relaxes more, her back moulding into my chest like it remembers how to be there. Her grip loosens, fingers resting instead of clutching, and something unravels inside me.
“You’re doing great,” I murmur. “Just like that.”
She lets out a soft huff of a laugh. “You sound very confident for someone who panics over paper cuts.”
I smile against her hair. “Fake it ‘til you make it.”
Jan walks past us, pausing briefly. “Good pacing,” she says. “Partners, keep your voices low and steady. You’re grounding them.”
I’m grounding her.
Eden’s breathing falters for half a second, and instinct kicks in before thought. I tighten my arms slightly around her, anchoring her without trapping her.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper. “Breathe with me.”
She does.
In. Out. In. Out.
Her head tips back just enough to rest against my shoulder, and I freeze, every nerve ending lit up, but she doesn’t pull away.
Instead, she smiles at me.
And as we breathe together, surrounded by strangers on cheap mats in a community hall, I’ve never felt so happy.
EDEN
I can’t describe the feeling I have as I sit against Kade. My back pressed to his front, our fingers laced together, our breathing matching. It’s like every single cell in my body is calling to him, begging him.