Look at me. Domestic hero. No sexual bribery attached. I check the baby monitor.
Ruby is starfished across her bed, mouth open, drooling like she’s run a marathon in her sleep.
Sophie is upside down. Of course she is.
Oscar is snoring softly, clutching that stupid dinosaur.
I lean on the kitchen counter and exhale.
This used to be the point where I’d sit down and binge some crap on Netflix.
Instead, I open Instagram. Rowan’s story pops up immediately.
I shouldn’t. I do.
There she is.
Front and centre. On the dance floor. Black dress. Backless. Hair down.
Jesus Christ.
I actually sit down.
She’s laughing, head thrown back, eyes bright, hands in the air as Spice Girls blasts in the background.
And I swear to God, I can feel the air leave my lungs.
That’s my wife.
Other men are looking at her. Not subtle glances either. Full-on staring.
I watch the clip again.
And again.
There’s something about the way she’s moving, not for anyone else. Not trying too hard. Just… alive.
And that hits me harder than anything.
Because for a long time, she hasn’t looked like that at home.
Not like that. Not light.Not loose.
I zoom in slightly.
A farmer-looking bloke behind the bar is grinning at her.
I pause.
Zoom further.
Okay, calm down. It’s Rowan. I know Rowan. I’ve known him for years.
Still. My jaw tightens.
She looks… confident.
Like she knows she’s being watched. Like she doesn’t care. And something feral and proud rises in my chest at the same time.
