“You can?” I asked, cautious.
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Of course. I should. You’ve… you’ve been up all night.”
I swallowed. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope makes you let go of control. Hope makes you believe someone else will catch you.
“Okay,” I whispered.
Dan nodded like he’d just agreed to a mission. “Okay.”
Ruby stirred again, fussy now, tiny mouth searching.
I adjusted her. She settled, cheek pressed to my skin.
Dan shifted on the bed. “I’ll set an alarm. Six?”
The fact that he had to ask told me everything.
Six is when they’re awake. Six is when the day starts. Six is when my brain turns on like a computer booting up and begins listing everything we need to do.
“Six,” I said.
Dan exhaled, relieved. “Right.”
He lifted the covers and shuffled his body inside, careful not to wake Ruby.
His eyes were tired. His face open.
“I love you,” he whispered.
The words should have filled me up. They should have made me feel held. Chosen. Seen.
Instead, they slid past the surface of me and landed somewhere hollow.
Because love wasn’t the thing I doubted.
It was everything else.
“I love you too,” I whispered back, because it was true. Because I always would.
Dan nodded, then rolled over.
Ruby’s warmth anchored me to the bed, her tiny body heavy with sleep.
I stared into the dim room and thought about the promise we’d made in the hospital. The pact. The sacred thing we’d sworn we wouldn’t break.
We won’t let this ruin us.
Maybe this was just the newborn phase. Maybe we were both exhausted and sensitive and half-feral. Maybe in a few weeks, when Ruby slept longer and my body stopped aching and the days didn’t feel like a blur of feeds and forms and forgotten milk, we’d find our rhythm.
Maybe Dan would take more of the thinking.
Maybe I’d stop feeling like the only person holding everything together.
Maybe we’d remember how to be Emma and Dan again.
I tightened my arms around Ruby and let myself believe it.
Because believing was easier than admitting the truth.
