“Dan…”
“Emma,” he cuts in gently. “I don’t want you making yourself smaller to keep everything tidy.”
My throat tightens. “You won’t resent me?”
He exhales softly, almost amused.
“I used to resent things I didn’t understand. I understand this.” He steps closer. “You were unhappy before. Not because of me. Because you’d shrunk. I won’t be the reason that happens again.”
That lands.
Hard.
This is not the man who once said I didn’t contribute. This is not the man who shut down when scared. This is a man choosing differently. And suddenly the fear isn’t about Milan. It’s about whether I’m brave enough to trust that we’re solid now.
Later, in bed, the house quiet around us, I whisper into the dark: “What if this changes things?”
He rolls toward me instantly. “Everything changes things.”
“That’s not comforting.”
He smiles against my shoulder. “Good. Means we’re alive.”
I press my forehead to his chest. “I don’t want to lose what we rebuilt.”
“You won’t,” he says quietly. “Because we built it properly this time.”
There’s no bravado. No ego. Just certainty.
A year ago, dropping something like this would have sent him spiralling.
How will I manage? What about work? What about the kids?
The irony isn’t lost on me. I carried it all once. Now he’s offering to. And the growth in him almost makes me uneasy. Being supported in my ambition is going to take some getting used to. But I am more than willing to get used to it.
The next morning, he’s already up before me. I hear the kettle. The low murmur of him negotiating cereal distribution.
“Ruby, milk is not optional.”
“I’m the Queen.”
“That’s fine, Your Majesty, but queens drink milk.”
I smile into my pillow.
When I walk into the kitchen, he’s made a list.
School pick-ups.
Packed lunches.
