Chapter 12
Patrice
"Show me this is real."
The words hang in the air between us, and I watch Trace's expression shift from surprised to something darker, more intense. His hand tightens around mine.
"Patrice—"
"I need to know," I whisper. "I need to feel it. Not just the words. Not just the promises. Show me."
He's quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. The fire crackles in the background, and I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
"Are you sure?" he asks quietly. "Because if we do this, if we cross this line again—"
"We crossed it seven months ago," I say. "We're just... following through."
That makes him smile, but there's still hesitation in his eyes. "I don't want you to regret this."
"I won't."
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you." I reach up and cup his face, feeling the slight stubble on his jaw. "But I'm tired of being scared. I'm tired of running. I'm tired of pretending I don't want this."
"What do you want?"
"You." The word comes out steadier than I expected. "I want you. Even though it terrifies me. Even though I don't know what happens next. I want this. Right now."
He leans in slowly, giving me time to change my mind, to pull away. But I don't. When his lips meet mine, it's gentle at first—tentative, like he's afraid I might break. But then I kiss him back harder, and something shifts between us.
The kiss deepens. His hand slides into my hair, and I grab the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. It's been months since that night in June, and my body remembers. My hands remember. The way he tastes, the sound he makes low in his throat when I bite his bottom lip.
"Patrice," he breathes against my mouth. "We should—bedroom?"
"Can't make it that far," I say, which would be sexier if I wasn't genuinely concerned about my ability to walk down the hallway right now. "Couch works."
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and there's heat in his eyes but also something soft. "I don't want to hurt you. Or the baby."
"You won't. The baby's fine. I'm fine. I'm just very, very pregnant and very, very done talking."
That makes him smile. He kisses me again, slower this time, like he's savoring it. His hands move to my waist, careful, and I can feel him hesitating.
"Trace," I say. "I'm not going to break."
"I know. It's just—" He looks down at my stomach. "This is different. You're different. I want to do this right."
"There's no right way. There's just—" I take his hand and press it against my belly. The baby kicks, and his face lights up. "There's just us. Figuring it out."
He nods slowly, then helps me adjust on the couch—which is less romantic and more a logistical puzzle involving throw pillows, my expanding belly, and the sudden realization that spontaneous passion is significantly harder when you're shaped like a basketball.
"Okay, so this position isn't working," I say, trying to shift without falling off the couch entirely.
"Hold on—" He grabs my arm to steady me. "Maybe if you lean this way?"
"That makes my back hurt."
"Other way?"
"That's worse. And now my hip is going numb."
We both freeze, staring at each other, and then I start laughing. Really laughing. The kind that makes my whole body shake and probably isn't helping the position situation.
"This is ridiculous," I gasp.
"This is pregnancy," he says, but he's grinning. "Okay, new plan. Bedroom. Actual bed. More space to work with."
"That requires walking."
"You can walk."
"I don’t walk, I waddle. There's a difference."
"You don't waddle."
I give him a look.
"Okay, you waddle a little," he admits. "But it's cute."
"Nothing about this is cute. I'm a parade float with legs."
"You're beautiful." He stands and offers his hand. "And you're about to be a very satisfied parade float if you can make it down the hallway."
That makes me laugh again, and I take his hand.
We make it to the bedroom, which involves me waddling down the hall while he tries not to laugh. I shoot him a look.
"Not a word," I warn.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"I was thinking you're beautiful."
"Liar."
"Okay, I was also thinking you waddle like a really cute penguin. But mostly the beautiful thing."
I swat at him, but I'm smiling. He catches my hand and pulls me into the bedroom, closing the door behind us even though we're the only ones here.
The room is dim, just the light from the bathroom spilling in. Trace turns to face me, and suddenly the humor fades. This is happening. We're really doing this.
"Hey," he says softly. "We can stop. Anytime."
"I don't want to stop." I reach for the buttons on his shirt. "I want this. I want you."
He helps me with the buttons, then pulls the shirt off entirely. I've seen him shirtless before—that night in June involved a lot of naked Trace—but somehow this feels different. More intimate. More real.
My hands shake slightly as I reach for his belt.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Nervous. Good nervous. Mostly." I fumble with the buckle. "Why are belts so complicated?"
"Here." He covers my hands with his and helps me undo it. Then he steps back slightly, completely naked. "Your turn."
Right. My turn. I'm wearing a dress that zips up the back, which seemed like a good idea this morning but now feels like a tactical error.
"The zipper's in the back," I say.
"I've got it." He moves behind me, and I feel his fingers find the zipper.
He pulls it down slowly, his knuckles brushing against my spine.
When the dress loosens, he helps me step out of it, and I'm suddenly standing there in maternity underwear and a bra that's doing its best to contain breasts that have gone rogue. This is not sexy.
"God, I'm huge," I mutter.
"Stop." His hands settle on my hips from behind, and he presses a kiss to my shoulder. "You're beautiful. You're carrying our baby. Do you have any idea how incredible that is?"
"I feel like a planet."
"You feel like the most amazing thing I've ever seen." He turns me around to face him, and the look in his eyes is so intense I forget to breathe. "Can I touch you?"
"Yes. Please."
His hands move over me slowly—my shoulders, my arms, my waist. When he reaches my belly, he pauses.
"Is this okay?" he asks.
"It's perfect."
He kneels down, and for a second I think he's going to do something very forward, but instead he presses a kiss to my stomach. Right over where the baby is.
"Hi, raspberry," he murmurs against my skin.
I laugh despite myself. "Did you just call our baby a raspberry?"
He looks up at me, grinning. "That's what you call it."
"Come here." I pull him up to standing. "Let me take care of you."
We settle onto the mattress, which involves some creative positioning and a lot of pillows. Finally, I'm on my side naked and he's pressed against me, his hand splayed across my stomach.
"Comfortable?" he asks.
"As comfortable as a pregnant woman can be." I turn my head to look at him. "Are you okay with all this? The belly, the awkwardness, the fact that I might need to pee in the middle of everything?"
"I'm more than okay." He kisses my neck, slow and deliberate. "I'm exactly where I want to be."
His hand slides lower, teasing, and I gasp.
"Still okay?" he murmurs against my ear.
"Very okay."
"Good." His fingers move with deliberate care, learning what makes me shiver, what makes me moan. "Tell me what you need."
"You. Just you."
He shifts behind me, and I feel him hard against me. "I need to ask something," he says, voice strained.
"What?"
"Birth control. We should—" He stops, and I can hear the embarrassment in his voice. "Wait. That's a stupid question, isn't it?"
I laugh so hard I snort. "Yeah, Trace. Little late for that conversation."
"I'm an idiot."
"You're sweet." I reach back and touch his face. "And we're good. All things considered."
"Right. Okay." He laughs too, and the tension breaks a little. "I just wanted to be responsible. I haven’t been with anyone since you."
"The responsible thing happened seven months ago. Now we're just enjoying the consequences."
He groans and buries his face in my neck. "You're terrible."
"You love it."
"I really do."
He moves slowly, carefully, checking in with every shift. "Is this okay? Too much? Not enough?"
"Stop asking and just—" I push back against him, and he gets the message.
We find a rhythm that works—slow and steady, his hand on my hip, my hand covering his. It's different from that night in June. Less frantic, more intentional. Like we're learning each other all over again, but better this time. Deeper.
"You're perfect," he murmurs against my shoulder. "So perfect."
"I'm sweaty and enormous."
"You're carrying our baby. You're creating life. That's the definition of perfect."
I want to argue, but then he does something with his hips that makes me forget how to form words. My breath catches.
"There?" he asks.
"There. Definitely there."
He keeps that angle, that pace, and I can feel the tension building. It's been so long—months of being pregnant and stressed and scared—and now it's just this. Just us. Just the feeling of being wanted, being cherished, being seen.
"Trace—"
"I've got you," he says. "Let go. I've got you."
And I do. I let go of the fear, the control, the need to have everything figured out. I let go and fall, and he catches me just like he promised.
The release crashes through me, and I bite down on my pillow to muffle the sound. He follows moments later, his hand tightening on my hip, my name on his lips.
We lie there afterward, breathing hard, tangled together. The baby kicks between us, as if to say, Really? You two couldn't wait until I was born for this?
"Sorry, raspberry," I whisper, and Trace laughs.
"Our kid is going to grow up so disturbed," he says.
"Probably. But at least it'll have parents who actually like each other."
He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me. His hair is a mess, his face flushed, and there's something in his expression that makes my heart squeeze.
"I love you," he says. "I know I said it before, but I need you to hear it again. I love you. Not just because of the baby. Because of you."
"Trace—"
"Stay," he says. "Stay here. Be with me. Let me be there for both of you. Let's be a family."
The words settle over me, warm and terrifying. But underneath that warmth is a cold thread of fear.
"This is all still so new for you," I say quietly.
"What do you mean?"
"The baby. Us. This whole situation." I shift to face him better. "What if—what if six months from now, you realize this isn't what you wanted? That the reality of a screaming baby and sleepless nights and my stretch marks and—"
"Stop." He touches my face. "Do you really think that little of me?"
"It's not about you. It's about—" I struggle to find the words. "It's about me protecting myself. Protecting the baby. I've built a whole life on being independent, on not needing anyone. And now I'm lying here, completely dependent on you, and it terrifies me."
"You're not dependent on me. We're partners. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes." He kisses me softly. "Partners means we're in this together. We both bring something to the table. We both make decisions. We both screw up and figure it out."
God, I want to believe him. Every word.
But then I remember my conversation with Lauren at the wedding. Lauren, my old coworker from the Florida office. Lauren, who mentioned that my old position is still open because they haven't found anyone to replace me yet.
"I need to tell you something," I say.
"Okay."
"At the wedding, I talked to Lauren. She works—worked—with me at the company in Florida." I pause. "She was at Tessa's bachelorette party too, actually. That's why she flew up for the wedding."
Trace tenses slightly. "And?"
"And she said my old job is still available back in Florida.
They haven't filled the position yet." I take a breath.
"Apparently the person they hired to replace me lasted three days before quitting.
Said the workload was too intense. So, the position's open again, and Lauren said if I wanted to come back, she could put in a word with HR.
They'd probably even give me a raise since they're desperate. "
The silence stretches between us. I can feel his heartbeat under my palm, steady but faster than before.
"That's... a good opportunity," he says finally, his voice carefully neutral.
"It is."
"Do you want to go back?" he asks.
"I don't know." I close my eyes. "I don't know anything anymore.
A month ago, I had a plan. I was going to take the job here, have the baby, figure everything out on my own because that's what I do.
I figure things out alone. But then the company shut down, and I ended up here, and now everything's different. "
"Different how?"
"Different like—" I open my eyes and look at him. "Different like I'm falling in love with you, and it scares me more than anything else in my life ever has."
His breath catches. "You're falling in love with me?"
"I think so. Maybe. I don't know." I cover my face with my hands. "God, I'm a mess. I just had sex with you and now I'm talking about potentially moving back to Florida. I'm the worst."
"Hey." He gently pulls my hands away. "Look at me."
I do.
"I'm scared too," he says. "I'm terrified I'm going to screw this up. That I'll be a terrible father. That you'll wake up one day and realize you settled for a guy who carves wood for a living and lives in the middle of nowhere."
"That's not—"
"But I'm here anyway," he continues. "Because being scared doesn't mean we run. It means we choose to stay and figure it out together."
"What if I can't do that?" My voice breaks. "What if I'm too broken, too independent, too scared to be the partner you need?"
"Then we work on it. Together." He pulls me closer. "But you have to decide, Patrice. Do you want to try? Or do you want to run back to Florida and wonder what could have been?"
I don't answer. I can't.
Because the truth is, I don't know what I want.
And that terrifies me most of all.
We lie there in the dark, tangled together but somehow further apart than we've ever been. The baby kicks again, and I rest my hand on my stomach.
Stay or go. Love or safety. Alaska or the life I knew.
The answer should be simple.
But it's not.
And as I drift off to sleep in Trace's arms, I'm already planning my exit strategy.
Running is what I do best.
It's what kept me safe all these years.
And it's what I need to do now.