My laugh comes out jagged and delirious. Of course. Of f*****g course this would be the thing to finally soften him—not guns or gangs or my smart mouth, but the clinical horror of childbirth prep.
The classroom door creaks open. Sasha looms in the threshold, backlit by the birthing class’s salt lamp glow.
He arches a brow. He doesn’t really need to ask the question.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes. “Just realizing I’d rather birth these kids in a Denny’s parking lot than spend one more minute—”
His fingers curl around my wrists, gentle but firm. “Look at me, Ariel.”
The hallway spins. Or maybe that’s just me.
“Whatever this is,” he says quietly, “we’re in it together. For good.”
The words, too kind to be coming from a man like him, slip under my skin the way they always do
