Chapter 9: Small Mercies
1244 Words
(Camilla's Pov)
January crept into Willow Creek like a quiet guest, bringing sharp frost on the windows and the scent of woodsmoke in the air. My belly grew rounder every week, stretching the loose sweaters I wore until even they felt tight. Luca was active now—kicking at odd hours, rolling in ways that made me laugh and wince at the same time.
And Mateo was there for all of it.
Not in the overwhelming, possessive way I had once feared, but in small, steady mercies that added up like snowfall—silent, persistent, impossible to ignore.
He never missed a morning at the diner.
Every day at seven-thirty, the bell jingled and he walked in, boots leaving faint wet tracks on the mat. He always chose the same booth by the window where the light caught the gold in his eyes. He ordered the same breakfast—steak rare, eggs over easy, extra bacon—and always left a tip that was far too generous.
But it wasn’t just the money.
It was the way he noticed things.
When I started rubbing my lower back after long hours on my feet, a new cushioned mat appeared behind the counter the next day. No note. No credit taken. Just there.
When the winter wind made my hands crack and bleed from constant washing, a tin of thick salve showed up in my apron pocket—scented faintly of pine, the same as him.
When I mentioned offhand to Rosie that the baby loved the sound of classic rock, a small Bluetooth speaker appeared on my kitchen table one evening, pre-loaded with playlists.
He never pushed for thanks. Never lingered for conversation beyond a quiet “How are you feeling today?” or “Did he keep you up again?”
He simply… showed up.
And slowly, against every intention, I began to look forward to seven-thirty.
One particularly cold morning in mid-January, the diner was slow—just a handful of regulars nursing coffee against the chill. I was refilling Mateo’s mug when a sharp pain twisted low in my back. I paused, hand bracing the counter, breath catching.
He was out of his booth in an instant, hand hovering near my elbow without touching.
“Camila?”
“It’s fine,” I said automatically, straightening. “Just Braxton Hicks. The healer said they’d start soon.”
His jaw tightened, eyes scanning me like he could see the pain himself. “You’ve been on your feet since six.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re not.” His voice was low, firm but gentle. “Sit. I’ll cover the floor.”
I blinked. “You don’t work here.”
“I can carry plates and pour coffee.” He was already untying my apron strings with careful fingers, avoiding skin contact. “Rosie trusts me. The regulars like me. Let me help.”
I wanted to argue—pride flaring hot—but another twinge made me relent.
“Fine. Ten minutes.”
He guided me to his usual booth, settling me with a glass of water and a folded jacket under my back for support. Then he moved through the diner with surprising ease—refilling mugs, clearing plates, chatting with the old farmers about engine trouble and snowfall predictions.
Watching him work—sleeves rolled up, forearms strong and grease-stained from his mechanic job, voice deep and patient—did something dangerous to my heart.
He looked… normal. Human. Mine.
When the pain eased and I stood to take back my apron, he met me at the counter.
“Better?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He nodded, then hesitated. “There’s a prenatal yoga class at the community center tonight. Gentle, chair-supported. I checked—it’s safe for your stage.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You checked?”
“I asked the healer in Riverton when I drove you last week.” A faint flush touched his cheeks. “Thought you might like it. For the back pain.”
I hadn’t mentioned the class to him. He’d noticed on his own.
“I… might go,” I said slowly.
“I can drive you. Wait outside. Whatever you need.”
I studied him. The proud Alpha who once commanded hundreds was offering to be my chauffeur and bodyguard without a hint of resentment.
“Okay,” I heard myself say. “You can drive.”
The small smile he gave me—relieved, grateful—made warmth bloom in my chest.
That evening, he picked me up in his old pickup truck—bought second-hand so he wouldn’t stand out in town. The cab smelled of him and motor oil and something new: a faint baby powder scent from the car seat base already installed in the back.
“You bought a car seat?” I asked, climbing in carefully.
“Installed it last week,” he said quietly. “Practiced on a demo model at the store until the clerk threatened to call security.”
I laughed—actually laughed—and the sound surprised us both.
The class was small, mostly human women in various stages of pregnancy. Mateo waited in the truck the entire time, engine running against the cold. When I emerged, stiff but looser, he was standing outside with the passenger door open, snowflakes melting in his dark hair.
“How was it?”
“Good. Really good.”
He helped me in, then paused. “I made something. For after.”
He handed me a thermos. Inside was rich hot chocolate—exactly the way I liked it, with a hint of cinnamon.
I sipped and sighed. “You’re spoiling me.”
“Trying to,” he admitted softly.
The ride home was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Snow fell thick and steady, blanketing the town in peace.
When he parked outside my apartment, he didn’t immediately get out.
“Camila,” he said, voice low. “I know I don’t deserve it… but would you let me feel him kick? Just once?”
I hesitated. We hadn’t crossed that line yet—intentional touch beyond necessity.
But the hope in his eyes undid me.
I took his hand—large, calloused, warm—and placed it gently on the side of my belly where Luca was most active.
We waited in silence.
Then it came—a strong, insistent kick right against his palm.
Mateo’s breath caught. His eyes flew to mine, wide and shining.
“He’s strong,” he whispered, voice thick.
Another kick, harder.
Mateo let out a shaky laugh, thumb brushing reverently over the spot. “Hey, little man. I’m your dad.”
The moment stretched, intimate and fragile. Tears pricked my eyes.
He didn’t overstay. After a minute, he withdrew his hand slowly.
“Thank you,” he said, rough with emotion.
I nodded, unable to speak.
He walked me to my door as always, waiting until I was safely inside before leaving.
That night, I lay awake listening to the wind, hand on my belly.
Luca kicked steadily, as if talking to his father through the distance.
I whispered into the dark, “He’s trying, baby. He’s really trying.”
The walls around my heart didn’t crumble.
But another brick fell.
And for the first time in months, I fell asleep without tears.
Outside, snow kept falling—covering old wounds, making room for something new to grow.
- Writer
