“I thought we might…” he trails off.
“Yeah,” I say. Neither of us finishes the sentence.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe tonight?” Maybe tonight. The most overused promise in marriage. I nod anyway.
“Maybe.”
That evening, I try again. Not dramatically. Just… intentionally.
The kids are finally down. The dishwasher is humming. Dan’s on the sofa, scrolling through something on his phone. I sit beside him. Close enough that our thighs touch. He glances at me.
“Alright?”
I nod. I place my hand on his leg. Deliberate.
His eyes flick down. Then back up. The air shifts slightly.
I lean in and kiss him again. Softer this time. Testing. He responds immediately, phone abandoned on the sofa. His hand cups my waist, warm and sure. For a moment, it feels like it used to. I feel wanted. And I want him. His hand slides under myjumper, fingers warm against skin that feels foreign to me. My stomach tightens, not in pleasure, not yet, but in awareness.
I’m suddenly hyper-conscious of my body. The softness. The stretch. The fact I haven’t shaved my legs in… I don’t know how long.
Dan’s hand stills slightly.
“You okay?” he murmurs again.
Why does he keep asking that?
“Yes,” I insist, maybe too quickly. I try to sink into it. To switch off the mental tabs. The laundry. The dentist. The milk. But they’re still there.
Ruby coughed twice at bedtime.
Did I sign that form?
Did we run the dishwasher?
Dan kisses my neck. I should feel it. I want to feel it. Instead, there’s a split second where I feel… nothing. Not rejection. Not disgust. Just a kind of static. He pulls back, searching my face.
“You’re miles away,” he says gently.
I shake my head. “I’m not.” But I am. And he knows it. He doesn’t get defensive. He doesn’t get angry. He just sighs softly and presses his forehead to mine.
“I don’t want this to feel like pressure,” he says.
Guilt floods me. “I know.”
His thumb strokes my hip. “I still fancy you,” he says quietly.
The words land deep. “I know,” I whisper. Because I do. I see it in his eyes sometimes. That look. It’s just quieter now.
“I still fancy you too,” I add. And that part is true.
He smiles faintly. “We’ll figure it out,” he says.
We.
I nod. But as we sit there, bodies close but not quite connecting, I realise something uncomfortable. Trying is good. Trying is necessary. But wanting to want each other isn’t the same as knowing how to get back there. We don’t pull away inanger. We don’t argue. We just sit side by side until the moment passes.
Later, in bed, he reaches for my hand. I let him take it. It’s small. But it’s something. And for now, that has to be enough.
