Six months later. Early spring.
I stood at the kitchen window of the small house Ashton and I rented near campus, watching the sun rise over the neighborhood. My hands rested on my swollen belly—eight months now, the baby due in just a few weeks.
I felt movement beneath my palms. A gentle flutter that had become my favorite sensation in the world.
Good morning to you too, little one.
The house wasn't much—two bedrooms, a cramped kitchen, a backyard the size of a postage stamp—but it was ours. Ashton found it three months ago, after we decided I should take the semester off and focus on the pregnancy.
I'd go back next year to finish my degree. The hockey team sent flowers when I left, along with a card signed by everyone except the coaching staff. The new coach was boring, according to Angel.
I didn't miss it as much as I thought I would.
Arms wrapped around me from behind, careful of my belly, and Ashton's lips pressed against my neck.
"You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep. Someone kept kicking me." I leaned back into his warmth, feeling the solid strength of him, the safety I once thought I'd never find. "Your child is very demanding."
"My child?" I could hear the smile in his voice. "When the baby does something good, it's yours. When there's trouble, suddenly it's mine."
"You're catching on."
He turned me gently to face him, his hands framing my face, his eyes soft with a tenderness that still surprised me sometimes. This man who could kill without hesitation, who'd burned through a warehouse full of enemies to save me—he looked at me like I was the most precious thing in the world.
Maybe, to him, I was.
"I love you," he said. He said it every morning now, like he was making up for lost time. Like he needed me to know before the day began.
"I love you too." I rose on my toes to kiss him, a slow, sweet press of lips that promised more when I wasn't the size of a small whale. "Now make me breakfast. Your children are hungry."
"Children? There's only one in there."
"The baby and me. We're a package deal."
He laughed—a real laugh, the kind I rarely heard from him in those early days—and moved to the stove to start pancakes. I watched him work, still marveling at the domesticity of it all.
Ashton Jennings, former enforcer, current pancake chef. Life was strange.
My phone buzzed. A text from Angel: On my way over. Bringing baby clothes and gossip. You better have coffee.
I smiled and typed back: Decaf only. Doctor's orders.
The response was immediate: Tragic. See you in 20.
Angel had been my lifeline these past months. She was there when I came home from the hospital, there during the worst of the morning sickness, there when the nightmares about the warehouse woke me screaming in the middle of the night. She never asked for explanations about Kian or Donovan or any of the darker truths I still couldn't fully share.
She just showed up. Again and again. Refusing to let me disappear into myself.
At noon, another car pulled into the driveway.
I watched from the window as my father stepped out, carrying a shopping bag that probably contained more baby supplies than any child could ever need. He'd been doing this every weekend for two months now—showing up with gifts, staying for dinner, awkwardly trying to make up for fifteen years of absence.
It wasn't easy. There were still silences that stretched too long, old wounds that ached when pressed. But he kept coming.
That counted for something.
"Dad’s here," I called to Ashton.
"I saw. Think he brought another stuffed animal?"
"Probably three."
The two men had reached an uneasy peace. They didn't talk about what Ashton did with me—some things were better left unspoken—but they'd found common ground in their shared determination to protect me. I sometimes caught them talking in low voices on the porch, discussing security measures, potential threats, the ongoing cleanup of Donovan's network.
I didn't interrupt. Let them have their secrets. I had enough of my own.
Dinner was chaotic in the best way.
Angel dominated the conversation with campus gossip, describing the new coach's disastrous attempt to implement Ashton's training regimen and the team's rebellion against early morning practices. Father listened with something like amusement, occasionally asking questions that revealed how closely he was still monitoring my old life. Ashton cooked enough food for an army and watched me eat with quiet satisfaction, as if my appetite was a personal victory.
After Angel left and Kian retreated to his hotel—he wasn't ready to stay overnight yet, and neither was I—Ashton and I sat together on the porch swing, watching the stars emerge.
The night was cool but not cold. He'd draped a blanket over my shoulders, his arm warm around my back.
"Nate's trial ended yesterday," he said quietly. "Twenty years. No possibility of parole for at least fifteen."
I nodded. I'd known it was coming—the lawyers had kept me informed—but hearing it spoken aloud still sent a chill down my spine.
"Good."
"He showed no remorse. Even during sentencing. Kept insisting you led him on, that Donovan promised him you'd be his reward." Ashton's arm tightened around me. "The judge wasn't impressed."
"And Donovan?"
A pause. "Handled. You don't need to worry about him anymore."
I didn't ask for details. Some things I'd learned to leave in the shadows where they belonged. Donovan was gone. That was enough.
The baby kicked—hard this time, a solid thump against my ribs—and I gasped, grabbing Ashton's hand and pressing it to the spot. His eyes widened, then softened with wonder as he felt the movement beneath his palm.
"Strong," he murmured. "Like the mother."
"Stubborn," I corrected. "Like both parents."
He laughed and leaned down to press a kiss to my belly, whispering something I couldn't hear. A secret between father and child. The first of many, I suspected.
We stayed on the porch until the stars were bright and the air turned cold, talking about nothing important—baby names we couldn't agree on, nursery colors, whether the child would have his eyes or hers.
Normal things. Boring things. The kind of things I never thought I'd have.
Later, lying in bed with Ashton's hand splayed protectively over my stomach, I thought about the girl I was a year ago. Angry, alone, trapped by an ex-boyfriend's manipulation and a father's absence. I'd thought I knew what love was—Nate's possessive obsession, my father's distant control.
I was wrong about everything.
Real love, I'd learned, isn't about ownership or protection from afar. It's about showing up. Again and again, even when it's hard, even when you've failed before.
It's Ashton catching me when I fall and giving me the choice to stand on my own.
It's my father sitting through awkward dinners because he's finally ready to try.
It's Angel bringing baby clothes and terrible coffee because that's what friends do.
I turned my head to look at Ashton, already half-asleep beside me, his face peaceful in a way I rarely saw in those early days. I thought about everything we'd been through—the lies, the betrayals, the violence, the moments when I was certain we wouldn't survive.
And here we were. Together. Building something new from the wreckage of our old lives.
"I love you," I whispered, even though he was asleep and couldn't hear me.
His arm tightened around me, pulling me closer. Maybe he heard after all.
I closed my eyes, one hand on my belly where our child grew, the other intertwined with Ashton's fingers. For the first time in my life, I wasn't waiting for something to fall apart. I wasn't bracing for the next disaster.
I was just... here. Present. Safe.
Home.
The baby kicked once more, as if in agreement, and I fell asleep smiling.