When we're finally bare, I lower her onto the bed and just look at her. Three months of missing her, wanting her, hating myself for losing her.
"Daniel." Her voice is soft. "I need you."
I kiss her slowly. Her lips, her jaw, the sensitive spot below her ear that makes her gasp. Down her neck to her collarbone, feeling her pulse racing under my mouth.
My hand slides up her thigh, and she opens for me, trusting. I touch her carefully at first, relearning what makes her breath hitch, what makes her arch into my hand.
"Please," she whispers. "I've missed you so much."
I settle between her legs, mindful of her belly, and she wraps her legs around me. When I finally push inside her, we both make a sound—relief, recognition, coming home.
I move slowly at first, carefully, but she pulls me closer.
"Don't hold back," she breathes against my neck. "I'm not fragile."
So I don't. I set a rhythm that has her gasping, her nails digging into my back. Our eyes stay locked on each other—I want to see her, all of her, want her to see that this is real.
"I love you," I say, and she clenches around me.
"I love you too." Her voice breaks. "God, Daniel, I love you."
Her hand finds mine, our fingers lacing together above her head. The other hand stays on my chest, feeling my heart racing.
I can feel her getting close—the way her breathing changes, the way she tightens around me. I slide my hand between us, finding the spot that makes her cry out.
"Come for me," I whisper against her lips. "Let me feel you."
She does, her whole body arching, my name on her lips like a prayer. The sight of her—beautiful and undone and mine again—breaks something open in me.
I follow her over the edge moments later, burying my face in her neck, tears mixing with sweat and whispered declarations of love.
When the trembling subsides, I'm careful as I pull out, immediately gathering her against me. She's crying. So am I.
"We're really doing this?" she asks, her voice raw.
"We're really doing this."
She pulls me down, holding me as the tears come—release and relief and the overwhelming weight of second chances. I feel movement against my stomach—the baby, shifting between us.
"She's moving," Bailey whispers, wonder in her voice.
I place my hand over the spot, feeling our daughter. "Hi, Harper," I say softly. "I'm your dad. I'm going to do better. I promise."
Bailey's tears fall harder. "You already are."
We stay like that—tangled together, her head on my chest, my hand on her stomach where our daughter sleeps.
"I'm still scared," she admits.
"Me too."
"But less scared than I was."
"Me too."
She falls asleep first. I watch her breathe, overwhelmed by the gift she's given me. Trust. Love. Another chance.
In my pocket, the ring felt heavier today than usual.
