Chapter 1 - Fragile Morning
Grace
The smell of coffee hit first—strong, dark, and far too bold for my stomach. I pressed my forehead to the cool counter and waited for the wave to pass.
The baby, apparently, hated mornings as much as I did.
Behind me came the sound of movement—measured, deliberate. The scrape of a chair leg. A quiet curse under his breath when something clattered.
“Don’t move,” Pike said.
“I’m not,” I mumbled into my sleeve.
He was already at my side, barefoot, hair still damp from his shower, t-shirt half-tucked like he’d dressed in a hurry. He looked like a man about to go on patrol—watchful, tense, eyes flicking between me and the stove as if one of them might explode.
“You’re pale,” he said, voice low. “You need to sit.”
“I am sitting.”
“Properly.”
That earned a quiet laugh out of me, though it came out thin. “You sound like the nurse, not me.”
He ignored that, filling a glass of water and setting it by my elbow, then adding another because, apparently, one wasn’t enough.
His boots weren’t even on, but I could feel the readiness in him—the constant alert that never really went away. It had dulled over the years, but it was still there, humming beneath the surface.
“I’m fine,” I said finally, turning toward him. “It’s just morning sickness. It’ll pass.”
His brow furrowed, lines carving deeper. “You sure?”
“No, I thought I’d make it up for attention.”
He didn’t laugh. Not really. Just the faint twitch of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
I sighed, picked up the glass, and took a sip. The water was cold enough to shock me back to feeling human. “See? Not dying.”
He shifted his weight, crossing his arms, watching me like I might disappear if he blinked.
“Pike.”
“Hmm?”
“I can feel you hovering.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He leaned against the counter, unrepentant. “You look pale.”
I rolled my eyes and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Pretty sure everyone looks pale in November light.”
Outside, frost glazed the pasture in a thin shimmer. The sunrise was barely a smear of gold over the treeline. Everything about the ranch felt suspended—quiet, unmoving.
“Eat something,” he said after a moment. “You didn’t finish dinner last night.”
I grimaced. “Dinner was chili. Chili and pregnancy don’t mix.”
He made a sound low in his throat. “Toast, then. Eggs.”
“Pike—”
“Grace.”
That tone—firm, commanding, straight from his SEAL days—still had the power to shut me up. I didn’t argue when he moved to the stove, cracking eggs into a pan with the same precision he used to load a rifle.
He didn’t speak, but I could feel the energy radiating off him—controlled, contained, but too much for the space it was trapped in.
I loved him. God, I loved him. But sometimes I felt like I was living next to a live wire, humming so quietly it made the air tremble.
“Babe,” I said softly, “you don’t have to—”
“—do something? Yeah, I do.”
He flipped the eggs. The smell hit me again—salt, butter, something that should’ve been comforting but made my stomach lurch. I turned away, biting the inside of my cheek.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything.
“Breathe,” he said quietly.
“I am.”
“You’re holding it.”
I glared at him, but he wasn’t wrong.
He set the plate down in front of me like it was an offering. Perfect eggs. Toast cut diagonally. Fork already beside it.
He kissed the top of my head—warm, brief—and sat across from me, watching but pretending not to.
The first bite went down easy enough. Warm, soft, salty. It was good. Too good. It tasted like home. Like the life we’d fought to build, one quiet day at a time. And somehow, that calm terrified me more than anything.
I set the fork down, hands trembling slightly. “You’re doing it again.”
He blinked. “Doing what?”
“The staring. Like I’m going to collapse.”
He looked down at his coffee. “Can’t help it.”
“Yes, you can.”
He didn’t argue this time. Just stared into the steam for a long moment before saying, “It’s different now.”
“How?”
He glanced at me, eyes softer but still shadowed. “Before, it was just me. Then it was you. Now it’s you and the baby. That’s two people I can’t lose.”
The words hit like a slow ache in my chest. Pike wasn’t the kind of man who said things like that easily. When he did, it was like watching something fragile unfold in his hands.
I reached across the table and brushed my thumb against his knuckles. “You’re not gonna lose us.”
He didn’t answer, but his hand turned palm-up, catching mine.
The silence stretched, not heavy—just full. The heater kicked on somewhere down the hall, humming against the quiet. Outside, a crow broke the stillness, its cry sharp and distant.
I realized I’d missed this kind of morning. The calm. The warmth. The chance to feel instead of survive.
And yet, part of me itched for the chaos of the emergency room—the adrenaline, the rush, the noise. Maybe that was what scared me most: peace didn’t feel safe. It felt temporary.
I pushed the plate away and leaned back. “You know, if you keep feeding me like this, I’m going to start thinking you’re enjoying this whole nesting thing.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I like having something to do.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
He smiled faintly. “Close enough.”
I studied him for a moment—his rough hands, the scar at his jaw, the lines etched deep from years of frowning at danger. He was softer now, in ways that didn’t erase who he’d been. But even now, I could tell the quiet made him restless.
When I stood, he moved instantly, like his instincts couldn’t help it.
“I’m just going to the sink,” I said, fighting a smile.
He eased back but didn’t sit. “You should rest after.”
“Or I could take a shower and go into town.”
His head snapped up. “Grace—”
“Groceries. That’s all.”
He exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Text me when you get there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
His glare softened into something close to amusement. “You drive safe, understand?”
“Yes, Pike.”
I dried my hands and brushed past him, pausing at the door to press a kiss to his cheek. “You know, someday you’re going to realize I’m not glass.”
He caught my wrist gently, thumb grazing the inside of it. “I know,” he said quietly. “But I’m still learning how to stop treating you like I could lose you.”
I looked at him for a long moment, heart tight, and then whispered, “Then I guess we’ll learn together.”
He nodded, eyes flicking toward my stomach, then back up to me.
“Go before I change my mind,” he murmured.
I laughed, grabbing my coat. “Yes, sir.”
When I stepped outside, the cold hit like a breath of clarity. The sky was pale blue, the ground crisp with frost, the world smelling faintly of woodsmoke and winter coming.
Behind me, through the kitchen window, Pike stood exactly where I’d left him—watching. Guarding. Loving.
And as much as it should’ve comforted me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that peace was just another kind of storm waiting to break.
