Chapter Twenty-Five - Eden
Morning arrives quietly, settling over the apartment in soft gold. I blink awake, the weight of sleep still thick in my limbs, and reach for Simon almost before I open my eyes.
His arm is slung over my waist, his hand spread wide over the gentle curve of my stomach. We’re both tangled in white sheets, his body curled protectively around mine, as if he can shield us from the world even in dreams.
I roll to face him, heart full. For the first time in a long while, I feel the ache of the past has loosened its grip.
The world feels lighter now—less hostile, less uncertain. It’s as if the vows we exchanged yesterday have drawn a protective line around us, a circle that nothing can breach.
I still can’t quite believe it: Simon, saying the words out loud, slipping a ring on my finger with trembling hands, his eyes never leaving mine as he promised, in that rough, quiet way of his, to choose me every day. To protect me. To love me.
The ceremony was small, almost secret, just as we both wanted. No flowers, no crowd. Only the two of us in the sunlit study, the softest music in the background, our hands clasped together.
His thumb kept rubbing over my knuckles, as if he needed to remind himself I was real, that this was happening.
The memory makes me smile now, a warmth blooming in my chest. I trace the edge of my ring, thinking how odd it is that a single circle of gold can change so much inside you.
Trust, for so long, was something I hoarded, rationed out in careful pieces. I never let myself lean on anyone—never allowed myself to believe in anything but myself.
Now, lying beside Simon, feeling his breath on my cheek, I realize that trust isn’t a danger. Not with him. It’s a foundation, solid and steady. I can surrender to it. I want to.
Simon stirs, pulling me closer. His lips find my hair. “You’re awake.”
“Mmm. Barely.” I let myself melt into him, eyes still closed, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “I could stay here forever.”
His laugh is low, his hand smoothing over my side. “I’ll keep you here as long as you want.”
“I’m holding you to that.” My voice is still thick with sleep, but there’s a joy in it I can’t hide.
He kisses the curve of my jaw, murmuring, “I’d give you anything.”
The certainty in his words silences any ghosts of doubt that might have lingered. I let myself sink deeper into him, letting the safety of his arms and the promise of this new chapter seep into my bones.
Pregnancy complicates everything, but it can’t dim this lightness. Still, the changes in my body are impossible to ignore. My stomach twists without warning, leaving me breathless and clammy.
Fatigue wraps itself around my shoulders some days, heavy and stubborn, dragging me back to bed before the sun has properly risen.
Simon is always there. When nausea hits, he’s already holding back my hair, running cool water, whispering soft reassurances.
When I wake dizzy and uncertain, his arms are steady anchors, grounding me with every touch. He doesn’t rush me, doesn’t demand explanations. He simply sits beside me, rubbing circles over my back, patient and unwavering.
He holds my hand everywhere—at the table, in the hall, curled on the couch in the afternoon sunlight.
Sometimes he just stares at our joined fingers, almost in awe, as if this connection is something sacred.
Every glance, every gesture, tells me what words can’t: that I am cherished, not just protected.
That the life inside me, chaotic and new, is wanted in every way.
After breakfast, he finds me on the balcony, wrapped in a soft robe. The city hums below, but the world here feels distant, separate. He leans against the railing beside me, sliding an arm around my shoulders.
“How do you feel?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Tired. Queasy. Happy.” I look up at him, grinning. “Still not convinced I won’t wake up and find out this is a dream.”
He brushes a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. “I’ll keep reminding you it’s real.”
I close my eyes, letting the sunlight warm my skin, letting the memory of his vows wrap around me. “Did you ever think you’d get here? With me?”
He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb stroking slow, steady lines on my arm. “No. I never thought I’d have anything like this. Never thought I’d want it…” He leans in, kisses my temple. “Now I can’t imagine anything else.”
His words fill the empty spaces inside me—the ones I didn’t know existed, the ones left hollow by years of loneliness and fear. I lean into his embrace, letting the strength of him hold me upright, letting myself believe in the simple, impossible reality of being loved.
The day unfolds gently. When a wave of exhaustion hits, I find myself drifting on the sofa, head in Simon’s lap, his fingers combing idly through my hair.
I feel cherished, valued—not just for carrying his child, not just for surviving, but for being myself.
He tells me stories—some real, some wild exaggerations—just to coax laughter out of me, as if my happiness is a secret currency he’s collecting.
As the afternoon sun spills across the floor, I think about everything that brought us here—the danger, the pain, the unspoken promises, the moments of joy snatched from the jaws of chaos. I know whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.
Trust doesn’t scare me anymore. I let myself fall into it completely, surrendering to the love that binds us, fierce and protective. The world outside can wait.
***
The afternoon drifts into evening with a hush that feels sacred. Sunlight slants through the windows, catching dust motes and painting gold across the soft gray of the living room. I move quietly, almost reverently, aware of Simon’s presence even when he’s in another room.
The echoes of our vows still cling to every corner of this place, making everything feel new.
Dinner is simple, the kind of meal you only share with someone you trust completely. Simon makes me tea, fussing gently as he arranges slices of apple and cheese on a plate.
He watches every bite, every sip, as if he can will away the nausea by sheer force of will. When my stomach turns, he doesn’t scold or sigh; he just sits beside me, rubbing circles over my back until I’m ready to try again.
It’s in these small things—the soft clatter of a spoon in a mug, the brush of his hand against mine as he clears the table, the way he tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear as if he’s memorizing every detail—that I find my peace.
It isn’t grand gestures or declarations that matter now. It’s the quiet, persistent comfort of being seen, and cared for, and claimed without reservation.
After the kitchen is cleaned and the apartment is settled into evening, we migrate to the couch.
Simon draws me in close, pulling a heavy blanket over both of us.
He settles himself into the corner, wide shoulders making the cushions dip, and opens his arms. I go willingly, curling into his side, letting my cheek rest on his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear, a low and certain drum.
He threads his fingers through my hair, slow and gentle. I can feel him breathing, slow and deep, grounding us both. There is nowhere else to be—nothing else but the soft sound of his breath and the warmth of his arms around me.
“Is it too much?” he murmurs, lips brushing my hair.
I shake my head, eyes drifting closed. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
He lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like relief, and I turn my face up to look at him. There’s a softness there, a vulnerability that I know he would never show to anyone else. He kisses my forehead, lingers for a long moment, and then leans back, resting his hand over my stomach.
We stay that way for a long while, just breathing together. My body melts against his, the tension I always carry in my shoulders slowly ebbing away.
With Simon’s palm splayed wide and gentle over my belly, I feel safer than I have ever felt in my life. The world outside might be full of threats and uncertainty, but here, in this small circle of light and warmth, there is only us.
He strokes his thumb in lazy circles, sometimes speaking softly, sometimes just humming a tune I don’t recognize. Every once in a while, he presses another kiss to my temple, or nuzzles his nose into my hair as if he can’t quite believe I’m real.
I realize, watching the way he looks at me, that I’ve stopped fighting the feeling. For so long, love felt dangerous—a surrender, a weakness.
Now, it feels like strength. Trust doesn’t scare me; it grounds me. I lean into him, let myself want everything he offers. His protection isn’t a cage. It’s a promise. His passion isn’t something I have to tame or fear. It’s a fire I can trust not to burn me.
After a while, I pull his hand to my lips and kiss his knuckles. He smiles, the kind of smile that’s just for me, softening the harsh lines of his face. He presses his forehead to mine, breath warm and even, and we just sit together, silent and whole.