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“Help me.” I pull him closer. “Help me become whatever I’m supposed to be.”

His hands are gentle as they map my body. Every touch careful. Reverent. Like I’m something precious instead of something broken. The dress slides up. His palm finds bare skin, and the heat that spreads from the contact makes me gasp.

“Still okay?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Tell me if...”

“I will. I promise.”

He kisses me again, and this time there’s no hesitation. Just heat and hunger and the slow, deliberate slide of his hands across my skin. Every touch feeds me. Every breath. Every moment of connection.

The baby’s pulse evens out. Content. Satisfied.

And as his mouth traces lower, as his hands learn every curve, every hollow, I realize something.

This isn’t just about survival.

This is about choosing to feel. Choosing to be here. Choosing to let someone see me, all of me, even the parts I’ve kept hidden for three years.

And for the first time since Dan died, I’m not afraid of what he’ll find.

CHAPTER 9

Kaia

The sheets on the other side of the bed are cold. Like he was never there at all. Except I can still feel where his hands traced my ribs, my hips, the curve of my stomach. My skin remembers even if the mattress doesn’t.

Dawn light filters through the curtains, pale and apologetic. I lie there for a minute, maybe five, cataloging how different my body feels. Not hungry. That gnawing emptiness is gone. The baby’s pulse beats steady and calm beneath my palm. Content. Like it finally got what it needed.

Downstairs, something clatters in the kitchen. A pan. The refrigerator door opening and closing.

He’s still here.

I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.

I pull on the dress from last night, still crumpled on the floor where he peeled it off me. The fabric smells like yeast and something darker. Ozone. Him. I should probably shower. Change. Pretend last night didn’t happen.

Instead, I go downstairs.

The bakery kitchen is already warm. The ovens are heating, the way I always do first thing. Malak stands at the main counter, his back to me, arranging loaves I must have made yesterday. His movements are careful. Precise. Like he’s handling explosives instead of sourdough.

“You’re up early,” I say.

He doesn’t turn around. “The ovens needed starting.”

“I could have done that.”

“You needed sleep.”

The words are clipped. Professional. Like he’s talking to a customer instead of someone he was inside of six hours ago.

I cross to the coffee maker. Pour myself a cup even though my hands aren’t quite steady. “About last night.”

“You were dying.” He finally turns, but he won’t look at me. His eyes fix somewhere over my left shoulder. “The baby needed essence. I provided it. That’s all.”

“That’s all?”