I stare at the half-empty wine bottle on the counter and reach for a glass. He watches but doesn’t stop me. I pour just enough to take the edge off, then hand him the glass.
He raises an eyebrow. “Truce?”
“Temporary ceasefire,” I correct, half-smiling despite myself.
He takes a sip, grimaces slightly. “You always pick the dry stuff.”
“You always complain and drink it anyway.”
That earns a faint laugh. It’s small, but it’s something.
For a few minutes, we just stand there; two people trying to remember how to be on the same team.
Finally, I sigh. “Do you really think I don’t contribute?”
His eyes soften. “No. I think I said something stupid because I’m scared.”
“Scared of what?”
He shrugs. “Of not being enough. Of failing you. Failing the kids. Every time a bill comes in or the car makes a weird noise, I panic. I start thinking about everything I should be doing better.”
I bite my lip. “So instead of telling me that, you blame me?”
He winces. “Yeah. Because I’m an idiot.”
I want to stay angry. I should stay angry. But the way he says it; quiet, ashamed, knocks the fight out of me.
“I get scared too, you know,” I say after a pause. “Not just about money. About us.”
He looks up sharply. “Us?”
“Yeah.” My voice softens. “I worry that we’re turning into roommates who just happen to share kids. That we only talk about logistics and schedules and who’s picking up who. I missyou, Dan. The version of us that used to laugh until we couldn’t breathe. The us that used to flirt in supermarket aisles and have stupid inside jokes.”
He swallows hard. “You still make me laugh.”
“Not lately.”
He looks like he’s been punched again. “I didn’t realise I’d stopped trying.”
I take a shaky breath. “You didn’t stop trying. You just got tired. So did I. And maybe we both forgot that love isn’t something that keeps itself running, it needs effort. Energy. And we’ve been pouring all ours into everyone but each other.”
Dan’s eyes glisten. “You’re not wrong.”
“I usually am,” I mutter, trying to smile.
That earns me another small laugh. Then he sets the wine down and steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my temple. “You’re right, though. We need to find us again.”
“Easier said than done,” I whisper.
“Maybe. But I’d rather try than lose what we have.”
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. He reaches out, cautiously, and this time I don’t pull away. His hand finds mine, fingers tentative but firm.
The simple contact is enough to undo me. Tears spill over before I can stop them. “I hate that you made me feel like what I do isn’t enough.”
“I hate that I did too,” he says, voice breaking. “Because you do everything, Em. Everything that matters.”
I rest my forehead against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. “You can’t say stuff like that when you’re angry. It sticks, you know?”
