Page 83 of Tangled Desires

“Okay.”

It’s a start.

Lose it All - Sam Tompkins

The lamp throws soft shadows across the room. It’s four in the morning, and Imogen’s finally asleep, face slack, exhaustion easing off her features. My hand’s still on her belly, where the baby had been kicking up a storm all night. She’d been curled up, clutching her stomach, her back, wincing with every roll and jab.

I’d done what I could—rubbed her back, her stomach, whispered nonsense to distract her, held her tight—but watching her hurt like that? Brutal. Gutted me in a way I wasn’t ready for. Now, though, she’s out cold, peaceful for once. Good. She needs this.

My hand stays put, brushing lightly over the curve of her belly. The little one’s quiet now. Leaning in close, I murmur, “Alright, little bean, it’s your dad here. Or… whatever. Look, you gotta chill. She’s doing everything for you. You can’t keep kicking her like a punching bag.”

Imogen shifts, and I freeze. No movement. Just her breathing. “I read somewhere—yeah, I know, I read—that you can already hear her voice. That’s why you kick like crazy when she talks. But give her a break, alright? She’s tired.” My thumb traces lazy circles. “You’ll get your turn soon enough.” I swallow hard. “We haven’t met yet, but I can’t wait to hold you—see what you’re like. I love you, little bean.” My voice drops lower. “But, uh, let’skeep that between us, yeah? Don’t need your mum knowing I’m going all soft.”

Imogen’s breathing shifts, just enough to give her away. Her lips twitch—barely—but it’s there. She’s awake. “Your mum’s pretending to be asleep right now.” My voice is louder now, teasing. “She’s being real sneaky.”

Her eyes stay closed, but she snorts softly. “Big, tough guy reading baby books, huh?”

“Gotta prepare for this stuff, Immy. You can’t wing this one.”

“Andyou love little bean already? Sweet.”

“Oh, shut it.” I shoot back, pulling her close to spoon her, the warmth of her body grounding me. “Sleep now. I’ve got you.”

An hour crawls by. She’s breathing deep, curled around her pregnancy pillow. I slip out of bed, take a piss, then kneel back beside her. My heart’s hammering, palms slick, but I lean in, anyway, drawn to her. “Hey, me again,” I whisper. “I said I love you, but forgot the part where I’m falling for your mama, too.”

I should tell her face-to-face, but right now? It’s too much. The thought of how she might look at me—unsure, maybe even hesitant—clenches tight in my chest.

I will tell her. I have to.

Maybe I’ve been falling for her this whole damn time. Or maybe it’s always been there, simmering beneath every insult, every smirk we threw at each other. It’s easier now—too easy—to picture it.

Us. Later in life. Thethreeof us.

Her curled up on the couch, the baby in her arms, both of them asleep. Home. Safe. The kind of life I never thought I’d have. Andthat thought? Losing it? Fuck, it twists something deep inside. If things ever hit the fan—for any reason—I wouldn’t just lose her or the baby. I’d lose everything. Everything that makes me want to be better. Tostaybetter. I press a kiss to her temple, holding her like she’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

Because she is.

29

I’m falling for your mama, too.

The words have rooted themselves in my brain, making it impossible to just brush it off like I usually would. I can’t deny how he’s changed, softened even. And here I am, practically dissecting every smile, every touch, every lingering glance, questioning if I could really let myself fall for him. The thought alone makes me feel restless.

It’s infuriating, really, this unexpected ache, the fact that I’m actually considering what it would mean to let my guard down. He’s trying to act all casual, but I can see the way he watches me. Suddenly, every smile, every brush of his hand feels heavier, more complicated, like there’s a door I’d be insane to open, but I can’t stop standing there, hand on the handle, wondering if it would be worth it.

The sun’s out, but it’s chilly, barely sixteen degrees, so I’m bundled up to meet Isla at the shops to grab supplies for Michael’s birthday BBQ tonight. Isla waves me over, already clutching a basket. “About time you showed up. I was starting to think you’d decided to leave me to this adventure alone,” she teases, looping her arm through mine as we head inside.

“Oh, please, you’d last five minutes without my stellar advice on snack selection. You’d be picking out carrot sticks instead of chips.”

“Sure, because you’re the authority on fine dining. Anyway, how’s your week been?”

“Nope, we’re not talking about me yet. How wasyourweek?”

She sighs dramatically, tossing a bag of chips into the basket. “Oh, you mean my full-time week at my part-time job?”

I chuckle. “But you love it, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do, but it’s pure chaos. Just the other day, this pug came in—had somehow managed to eat an entire block of cheese and was, predictably, sick everywhere. Poor Molly—she’s a saint, I swear—was running around with cleaning supplies.”

---