I smile. “Team us.”
We sit there for a while without speaking. No grand declarations. No fireworks. Just warmth. Just steadiness. Just the kind of intimacy that doesn’t need to shout to be felt.
And for the first time since the early days of our marriage, I don’t feel like I’m managing everything.
I feel held, seen, equal.
Tomorrow I’ll do my write up from Milan.
Tomorrow, he’ll plait Sophie’s hair badly.
Tomorrow, Ruby will probably wear a cape to school.
Tomorrow, Oscar will pretend he doesn’t need us.
Life will keep moving. But tonight? Tonight, I lie here, steady. Not burning out. Not fighting to be noticed. Just existing inside a marriage that feels chosen. And that might be the most romantic thing of all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
DAN
ONE YEAR LATER
Morning light slips through the blinds in soft gold stripes, warm on my shoulder. I’m half-asleep, half-listening to the quiet breathing beside me. Emma’s hand rests on my chest, steady and familiar.
That flame between us, God, I used to panic that it would fade or that I’d somehow fail to keep it alive. But it hasn’t faded at all. It’s changed. Become something deeper, less frantic. The kind of warmth you lean into without fear of it burning out.
She shifts, kisses my shoulder, and carefully slides out of bed. I don’t open my eyes, but I feel the absence immediately. I always do.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, the coffee machine is already sputtering to life. I beat her to it today. Small victory. Small proof that I can carry my part of the weight.
A year ago, our mornings were chaos. Emma juggling everything, me rushing to work feeling like a ghost orbiting myown family. Now… now it feels like we move with each other instead of around each other.
I’m pouring two mugs when a shriek rattles the hallway.
“Ruby! Shoes! NOW!”
Emma’s “morning voice”, a tone I’ve come to love, cuts through the commotion.
I emerge just in time to see Ruby wrestling with a tutu, Sophie trying to jam her foot into a shoe, and Oscar giving us that deeply offended pre-teen stare.
I pull Emma close and plant a loving kiss onto her soft lips.
“Do you have to do that in front of us? Gross.”
I hand Emma her coffee. “You’ll thank us one day”
“Keep telling yourself that.” Oscar snarls.
I glance over at Emma in the way that she does, that knowing grin that I will always have her back. Her smile kills me every time.
Breakfast is pure bedlam. Ruby wears her banana like royalty. Sophie places her chair exactly where it blocks the entire hallway, “strategic,” she claims. Oscar complains that his cereal is either too cold or too warm; I’ve stopped trying to tell the difference.
But I’m calm. I chop fruit. I redirect tiny hands away from sharp objects. I talk Oscar off the cereal temperature cliff. I dodge Ruby’s airborne banana crown. And every now and then, I catch Emma watching me with this look of gratitude but also partnership. We earned this, both of us.
A year ago, mornings made us resentful. She felt alone. I felt inadequate. Now we talk, we regroup, we adapt. We’re messy, but we’re in it together.
Sophie snatches a pencil and starts drafting “the optimal breakfast seating plan.” Oscar tries to act too cool for all of this but smirks when Ruby makes her fruit juggling debut.
