Chapter 25
Hadley
Morning light slipped through the sheer curtains like spilled milk. I woke to the smell of pineapple and ginger. Cal was already up, shirtless, hair messy from sleep, balancing a tray with fruit, toast, and a steaming mug of ginger tea.
He set it on the nightstand. “Figured you’d want something light.”
I pushed myself up on my elbows. The sheet slipped to my waist. “You made breakfast?”
“Staff made it. I carried it.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “Same thing.”
I smiled despite myself. “Still counts.”
He handed me the mug. Warmth seeped into my palms. I sipped. Sharp, soothing.
He watched me drink. Then, awkward, almost shy, he reached over and rested his hand on my bump.
“Morning, kid,” he murmured.
A small kick answered. His mouth curved. Not a full smile. Something softer.
“Still kicking like he’s training for the pros.”
I laughed quietly. “You keep saying he.”
“Because it’s a boy.” He sounded certain. “I know.”
We stayed like that a minute. His hand warm. My heart doing that stupid flutter thing I hated.
He picked up the pregnancy book from the nightstand, the one he’d bought weeks ago and barely touched until the trip. Flipped it open.
“Listen to this.” He cleared his throat. “‘By week twenty-four, the baby’s lungs are developing surfactant, which helps them breathe after birth.’”
He read slowly. Stumbled over “surfactant.” Pronounced it “sur-fac-tant” like he was sounding it out for the first time.
I bit my lip to keep from smiling too wide. “You’re reading to me.”
“Figured I should know what’s happening in there.” He turned the page. “‘The baby can now recognize your voice. And respond to it.’”
He looked up. “You talk to him a lot?”
“Every night.” I set the mug down. “I tell him stories. About the bakery I want to open. About how we’ll live somewhere quiet.”
Cal nodded. “I’ve been thinking about names.”
My breath caught. “Yeah?”
“Something simple. Strong.” He hesitated. “Like… Rowan. Or Jude.”
I tilted my head. “Jude.”
He shrugged. “Sounds like he could handle anything.”
We sat there. Him reading another paragraph, about fetal movement patterns, his voice low and careful. Me leaning into his shoulder. Letting the warmth spread.
Dangerous warmth.
Because it felt real.
Then the door burst open.
Kylie, four years old, pigtails flying, ran in. “Uncle Cal! Eli said he’d show me the redstone thing but he’s still sleeping! Can you wake him?”
Cal’s hand left my bump instantly. He stood. Posture shifted. Uncle mode. Easy smile. “Yeah, kiddo. Let’s go wake him.”
He glanced back at me. “I’ll be right back.”
The door closed behind them.
The room felt colder.
I stared at the tray. Pineapple suddenly looked too bright.
I set it aside. Lay back. Hand on my stomach.
The kick came again. Softer this time.
I whispered, “He’s trying, little one.”
But trying wasn’t the same as staying.
The beach that afternoon was bright and loud. Sand hot under towels. Waves rolling in steady.
Eli sat near the waterline building a sand fortress, precise towers, moats dug with geometric accuracy. He used a stick to mark perfect angles. No curves. Only lines.
Cal walked over. Shirt off, swim trunks low. He crouched beside Eli.
“What’s the plan here?”
Eli didn’t look up. “Defensive structure. Towers for archers. Moat to slow attackers. Sand compacts better when wet.”
Cal sat fully in the sand. Legs stretched. “How do you keep them from collapsing?”
Eli explained, patient, monotone. “Angle of repose. Forty-five degrees for dry sand. Thirty for wet. I’m using wet.”
Cal listened. Asked follow-ups. “What if you add shells for reinforcement?”
Eli considered. “Could work. Texture increases friction.”
They worked together. Cal digging, Eli directing. No small talk. Just facts. Patterns.
I watched from under the umbrella. Eleanor beside me, sunglasses low.
“He’s always been good with kids,” she said quietly. “When he forgets to be scared of them.”
I glanced at her. “Scared of what?”
“Of feeling too much. He learned early that emotions make you vulnerable. So he… shuts them off.”
My throat tightened. “He’s trying now.”
“I know.” She touched my arm. “But trying looks different for him.”
I looked back at the beach. Cal laughing, quiet, real, when Eli’s tower stayed standing after a wave hit the base.
Hope flickered. Bright. Hot.
But hope burned too.
Later, Cal’s phone buzzed on the towel beside me. He was in the water with Malcolm, tossing a football.
I didn’t mean to look.
Screen lit. Syd’s name.
I turned away.
He came back dripping. Grabbed the phone. Face tightened. Put it face-down.
Nothing.
Dinner that night was loud again. Outdoor table. Lanterns. Fish and plantains. Kids running between chairs.
Cal sat beside me. Hand on my thigh under the table. Casual. Steady.
Afterward we walked the beach. Moon high. Sand cool now.
He held my hand. Fingers laced.
I waited until we were far enough from the villa lights.
“What did Syd want?” I asked.
He hesitated. Steps slowed.
“Just band stuff. Nothing important.”
I stopped. Looked at him. “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
I didn’t believe him.
We kept walking.
He pulled me down to sit in the sand. Positioned me between his legs. Arms around me. Chin on my shoulder.
Whispered against my ear, “I like this. Us. Here.”
My heart raced. Breath caught.
I wanted to ask: What about when we’re not here?
What about when it’s real life?
What about Syd?
I didn’t.
Just leaned back into him. Let the warmth wrap around me.
We stayed like that until my legs cramped.
Back in the room he undressed me slowly. Kissed every inch he uncovered. Held me like I might disappear.
I let him.
But when he fell asleep, arm heavy across my waist, hand on my bump, I lay awake.
Staring at the ceiling fan turning slow circles.
Wondering if I was falling for crumbs.
Because he liked “this.” Us. Here.
But he still hadn’t said he liked me.
And the hope that had felt so warm earlier now stung.
Sharp.
Burning.
Like sunburn after too long in the sun.
I closed my eyes.
The baby kicked.
I whispered, “I know, little one.”
But I didn’t.
Not really.
Because I was falling in love with him.