Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
That’s not a flaw, that’s a fucking privilege
Carina
Iwake to the sound of a zipper and the faint scent of his cologne.
He’s by the window, half-lit by the early morning sky, wearing his navy suit. The one that fits him too well. His hair’s still damp, and he hasn’t noticed I’m awake yet—which is maybe why I get the full effect.
The broad shoulders. The steady hands. The way he rolls his sleeves once, frowning down as he adjusts his cuffs and exposes his damn corded forearms to an increasingly hormonal woman.
He’s all clean lines and quiet focus, calm in the way only Reid can be. And it does something to me, the way he always looks like he’s ready for a fight, but never starts one.
“Are you trying to get laid again?” I croak, my voice rough from sleep.
His head turns slightly, and that mustache twitches. “You were asleep.”
“You’re standing in front of a window in your best suit, and you thought I’d sleep through it?”
He finishes tightening his tie. “Didn’t know my suits had ratings.”
“Oh, they do. This is a solid eleven.”
I push the covers back and sit up, my body sore in a way that’s more satisfying than it is annoying. He was relentless last night, but sweet about it too. Always checking in before I could ask, slowing down when I needed him to. But he never stops treating me like he’s starving for it.
There’s a low, fluttering kick just under my ribs, followed by a firm push against the left side of my belly. Always at this time of the morning when I sit up.
I breathe through it and press a palm to the spot.
“She’s awake,” I murmur, voice still scratchy from sleep.
He turns around, eyes soft the second they land on my bump.
“Morning, trouble.”
“Me or her?”
He crosses the room in three long strides and kneels beside the bed, suit pants creasing, completely unbothered.
“Both of you.”
One big hand rests over mine where it’s curved along my belly, and almost instantly, she kicks again—right into his palm.
He lets out the softest breath, as though this knocks the air out of him every single time.
“Hey,” he says quietly, dropping his voice low like it’s just for her. “You being good to your mom?”
Another thump, this time closer to the center.
“Thought so,” he murmurs, thumb stroking once across my skin. “If she gives you shit while I’m gone, I’ll handle it when I get back.”
“Wow,” I say softly, watching him. “Look at you. Peak dad-mode.”
He glances up. “I haven’t even weaponized the dad jokes yet.”
“You’re lucky she can’t roll her eyes, then.”
“She’s learning from the best.”
I smile, and for a second, I forget how heavy everything’s been. The inquiry. The move. The way my body’s changing faster than I can keep up with.
Because he’s here, in his full damn suit, kneeling on the bedroom floor like the world stopped turning and all that matters is this one small, wild heartbeat beneath his hand.
“Where are you first?” I ask quietly.
“Calgary. Then Vancouver. Back Wednesday.”
It’s not that long, but something in my chest still tugs a little. Hormonal or otherwise, I can’t be sure.
He presses a kiss just above my belly button, then another to my ribs. Then finally, he looks up and brushes my hair back.
“You okay?”
I nod, barely. “Just… clingy.”
His gaze sharpens, all that quiet intensity locking onto mine. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I don’t know,” I murmur. “Feels weird to be this needy.”
“Park.” His voice drops. “You needing me—that’s good. That’s not a flaw, that’s a fucking privilege.”
I swallow hard because there’s nothing casual about the way he says that. My breath catches as he leans in and kisses me again, this time deeper. Possessive, with his hand cradling the side of my face.
“I’ll be gone four days,” he murmurs against my lips. “And I’m gonna spend every second wishing I was home in this bed with you.”
“I’m fine,” I say, even though it’s not what I mean. “I’ve got Heidi, and the whole coven.”
“You’ve got me too, baby,” he corrects, thumb grazing my cheek. “Even when I’m gone.”
I nod, eyes stinging. “Okay.”
He kisses me slowly once more, and when he pulls back, I already miss him.
“Be safe,” I whisper.
“Always.” He presses one last kiss to my forehead, then stands and grabs his bag. Adjusts his collar at the mirror. And before he walks out, he looks back.
“I like you clingy.”
I huff out a laugh. “Yeah?”
“Makes me feel needed.” He pauses with a grin. “Also, pretty sure you’re hornier when you know I’m about to leave.”
I chuck a pillow at his head, and he catches it one-handed.
And then he’s gone.
Down the stairs, out the front door, and into a waiting cab. Gremlin pads in two seconds later, tail flicking with practiced indifference, as though she hadn’t been pacing the hallway all morning waiting for him to leave.
She hops onto the bed with the elegance of a bored queen and flops down against my hip with a grunt.
“Morning to you, too,” I murmur, dragging a hand through her fur.
She stays pressed against me, the weight of her small, grumpy body oddly grounding.
The house settles, but it’s not lonely, just unfamiliar. I’ve been here just over a month now, long enough that I should feel settled. And mostly, I do. But there are still boxes in the spare room, corners of my life that haven’t quite been absorbed into his.
The nursery’s still a work in progress. The cot is half-assembled, the mobile’s still in the box, and there’s a pile of paint swatches in the top drawer Reid pretends he hasn’t color-coded.
He won’t let me build anything alone. “Safety risk,” he claimed. More like control, but I don’t mind. I just roll my eyes and let him have his moment, because he gets weirdly intense about the tiny wrench that comes with build-your-own furniture.
The girls have been circling me like satellites lately, bright and chaotic and loud.
It started with a coffee catch-up after I told them about the baby. I’d expected curiosity, maybe some cautious support.
Instead, I got a group chat titled Hormonal and Hot before I even made it home.
Zoe and Heidi came up with it together, cackling over spritzers, while Lulu threatened to embroider it on a tote bag.
Charlie suggested matching robes, and Tamara offered to host a baby shower with a theme she called elevated cottagecore, and no one questioned her.
Heidi had looked alarmed for about twelve seconds, but then dived headfirst into the madness, too.
She’s still my constant, my calm in the storm. But it’s been something else entirely to watch her fold into this fast-forming coven of terrifyingly competent, aggressively loyal women.
I’ve never had that, not like this.
The six of them rally around each other like it’s instinct—remembering snack preferences, stalking old exes, sharing derm codes and game event spreadsheets like classified intelligence.
And somehow, they’ve made space for me too.
It makes me smile when I think about it. Makes me a little nauseous too—of letting people see me like that. Of being known.
Last week, I called my mother to tell her.
She was polite and congratulated me, then asked if I’d really thought through how much my life would change.
“Motherhood is hard, Carina. Especially for someone like you.”
Someone like me.
I didn’t cry afterward. I didn’t even get mad. But I told Reid all about it when he got home. Word for word.
He didn’t rant or pace or plan a rebuttal, even though I saw the fire in his eyes. He just pulled me in, held me against his chest like he was anchoring me there, and kissed the top of my head.
Told me he was proud of me.
I sit up, rubbing my lower back, and glance toward the stack of boxes still tucked under the window. One of them is labeled Bedroom Overflow in my handwriting, the marker fading slightly at the edges.
I drag it toward me and slit it open with a pair of scissors. Inside are some old books I forgot I loved, a half-burned candle, and a tangle of cords that don’t seem to belong to anything I own.
And beneath it all, tucked between a paperback and a stray birthday card from Heidi that says Stop aging, bitch, there’s another envelope.
Thinner and plain white, but yellowing a little. My name is written in slightly shaky block letters that I’ll recognize forever.
I pull the card out slowly and unfold it.
It’s one he bought from the pharmacy down the road from my childhood home. Nothing fancy, just a photo of a cat in a party hat and a generic printed message inside. But he’d added his own note beneath it, scrawled in blue pen.
Happy twelfth, ?? ?
You’re brave, you’re smart. You’re exactly who you’re supposed to be.
Don’t let anyone tell you different.
?? ?.
Uri ttal.
My daughter.
He always wrote it in my birthday cards, but he used to say it out loud sometimes, too. Not often, but always when it counted. After school plays, hospital visits, the time I cut all my hair off in fifth grade and pretended I didn’t care.
My girl.
I press the card flat in my lap, one hand curved around the swell of my belly, and for the first time since I found out I was pregnant, I really let myself feel it.
This daughter.
This girl, she’s mine.
Ours.
Uri ttal.
It hits something in my chest so deep and old, I forget how to breathe for a second, but I don’t cry. I lean into it. Sitting on the floor with the card in my lap, one hand curled around my bump, I let it ache.
It always catches me off guard, missing him more when things are okay than when they aren’t. But that’s grief, and I’ve learned to carry it.
Swallowing thickly, I finish unpacking the box and fold the flaps down, then slide it into the closet. The house still feels quiet, but shifting. Holding space for something new.
The baby nudges me, and I rest a hand on my stomach and exhale.
“He would’ve loved you, you know,” I whisper.
Gremlin blinks at me from the bed like I’ve said something monumentally stupid, and I smile anyway.