We stand there in our living room, holding each other, and I think about how none of this was planned. How I texted the wrong number and accidentally fell in love with an enemy. How we built something impossible against every odd.
"I love you," I tell him. "Even when you're cryptic about proposals and burn dinner and think middle-of-the-night is appropriate conversation time."
"I love you too. Even when you're stubborn about accepting help and try to save everyone including those who don't deserve it and steal all the blankets."
"I don't steal blankets."
"You absolutely do."
"Prove it."
"Challenge accepted." He picks me up—actually picks me up—and I yelp in surprise.
"What are you doing?"
"Proving my point about blanket theft. Also, taking advantage of a kid-free night to remind you exactly how much I love you."
"I'm not arguing with that plan."
He carries me to the bedroom, kicks the door closed, and for the first time in six months we have actual privacy. Time. Space to be more than just exhausted parents.
"Last time was rushed," he says, setting me down gently. "Reconnection after six months, figuring it out again. Tonight? Tonight I want to take my time."
"We have all night."
"Exactly."
And he does take his time.
Showing me with hands and mouth and whispered words how much he wants me. How beautiful I am, changed body and all. How the stretch marks are battle scars and the softness is strength and everything about me is perfect to him.
It's not the frantic passion of new love.
Not the practiced ease of long-term comfort.
It's something deeper—reconnection built on trust and vulnerability and the knowledge that we've survived impossible things together.
"I missed this," I whisper against his skin. "Missed being wanted like this."
"You're always wanted. But I get what you mean." He kisses down my neck. "Missed being us instead of just Mom and Dad."
"We can be both."
"We are both. But tonight, we're just this."
The intimacy builds slowly, carefully. Learning how our bodies fit together now. What's comfortable, what's different, what makes us both lose our breath.
There's awkwardness—there always is after time apart, after bodies change, after life reshapes you. But there's also beauty in the relearning. In the patience. In the choice to be vulnerable together.
"You're sure?" he asks at one point. "If anything hurts—"
"I'm sure. I'm cleared. I'm ready." I pull him closer. "Stop treating me like I'm fragile."
"You are fragile. And strong. Both at once."
"Then love me like both."
He does.
