We stay like that, tangled together, her heartbeat pounding against my chest.
Then I pull out, careful not to jar her, and grab a warm cloth from the bathroom. I clean her up gently, my hands steady despite the way my heart’s still racing, and she watches me, her eyes soft, vulnerable, but with that spark of strength I love. I adjust her blankets, tucking them around her, and slide into bed beside her.
“You okay?” I murmur, kissing her temple, my fingers tracing lazy circles on her back.
She laughs, soft and sated, her voice pure Kasi. “Okay? You just rewrote the definition of perfection, Moretti. I’m giving you a whole galaxy of stars.”
I chuckle, holding her closer, careful of her changing body. “Sleep, sweetheart. You’ve earned it.”
She snuggles into me, her breathing slowing, and whispers, “Only if you stay.”
“Of course,” I say, and as I hold her, the weight of her in my arms feels like the only thing that matters in this dangerous, messy world. “I could spend hours just touching you.”
“Please don’t. I might die from overstimulation.”
I laugh, the sound rumbling through my chest. “What a way to go.”
She tilts her head up to look at me, and I see something vulnerable in her expression. “Are you scared?”
“Of what?”
“Being a father again.”
The question cuts deeper than she probably intended. My failures with my son haunt every quiet moment, every decision about the future.
“Terrified,” I admit.
“Why?”
“Because I failed him completely. I raised a monster who hurt you and countless other women. What if I make the same mistakes again?”
“You won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because you’re different now. Because you recognize your mistakes instead of ignoring them.”
She shifts to face me fully, her hand resting on my chest. “And because this time, you won’t be raising a child alone.”
The simple statement breaks something open in my chest. She’s right. Whatever comes, we’ll face it together. Our child will grow up with two parents who love each other, not a bitter father and an absent mother.
“I want to be different,” I tell her. “Better.”
“You already are.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the man who raised Dante never would have worried about making mistakes. He would have assumed he was right about everything.” Her thumb traces circles on my skin. “The fact that you’re scared proves you’ve learned.”
I capture her hand and bring it to my lips, pressing a kiss to her palm. “What kind of parent do you want to be?”
“Honest. Present. I want our child to know they’re loved unconditionally, not just when they meet expectations.”
“And if we have a son?”
“We teach him to respect women.”
“And if we have a daughter?”
