Fiona woke up late the next morning sun already high, curtains glowing gold at the edges. She stayed in bed a minute longer than usual, hand resting on her stomach, feeling the quiet warmth there. No big kicks yet, just that soft, secret presence. Like the baby was listening.
She smiled a little. "Morning, you."
She got up slow, padded to the kitchen in her oversized tee and sleep shorts, made ginger tea the way she liked it now strong, with a squeeze of fresh lemon. The smell cut through the faint queasiness that was becoming background noise.
She carried the mug to the balcony, sat in the one chair that caught the sun, and let the breeze move through her hair. The cove sparkled below, boats drifting lazy. Normal Saturday stuff. She sipped and breathed and didn't think too hard about the email inbox that was still empty.
No news yet. That was fine. Weekends were for waiting.
She spent the day easy. Walked to the little market down the path slow, no rush. Bought strawberries that were stupidly red, a small jar of local honey, a crusty loaf she could smell through the paper bag. On impulse she grabbed a bunch of pale purple wildflowers too. They looked happy.
Back home she stuck them in an old jam jar on the kitchen table. The purple looked nice against the white counter. Simple. Hers.
She toasted thick slices of the bread, drizzled honey over the top, ate standing at the counter with a bowl of strawberries beside her. Sweet. Tart. The baby seemed to approve; a little flutter came right after the second bite.
She laughed quietly. "Okay, greedy. Strawberries are officially on the list."
Afternoon drifted. She read on the couch an old paperback she'd started ages ago and never finished. Laughed at the cheesy parts, teared up at the sweet ones. Blamed hormones and kept turning pages. Every now and then she jotted a quick note on her phone: Voss Éclat ideas. Inclusivity angles. Ad concepts she might pitch if the job came through. Nothing intense. Just keeping her brain warm.
Evening came soft. She made scrambled eggs with spinach, ate them slow at the table with the flowers watching. Shower after long and hot, water pounding her shoulders until everything loosened. Then bed, window cracked, waves whispering outside.
She checked email once before lights out. Still nothing.
She closed her eyes. "We're okay," she whispered to the dark.
The next morning felt the same but different. She woke earlier, made more ginger tea, sat on the balcony again. The cove was calm, water flat as glass. She rested both hands on her belly, felt the warmth, the tiny rhythm underneath.
"We're going to be okay," she said out loud. "Job or no job. We've got each other."
She spent the day gentle. Walked the path again longer this time. Stopped at the bench overlooking the water, sat, watched boats drift. Ate a handful of strawberries from the fridge. Read more. Jotted more notes. Napped on the couch with the throw blanket pulled up.
Evening she cooked simple yogurt bowl with granola and a few more strawberries. Shower. Bed. Window cracked. Flowers still fresh on the table.
She checked email one last time.
Still nothing.
She smiled into the pillow. "Monday then."
She slept deep.
No dreams.
No worries.
Just rest.
Just the steady little beat inside her that kept saying keep going.
Across the city, Martin Mole spent the weekend working.
He read reports. Signed contracts. Stared at the bay when the numbers blurred.
But every so often he opened the folder labeled F.F.
Her photo. Her cover letter.
He felt the same pull he'd felt when she sat in that conference room ,answering questions like she owned the room.
He closed the folder.
Monday he'd see her again.
This time under his roof.
This time on his terms.
He leaned back, fingers steepled, and let a small, quiet smile touch his lips.
She thought the wait was almost over.
She had no idea the real wait was just starting.
And he was going to enjoy watching her step back into his world.
One careful move at a time.
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