Carefully, I turn in his arms.
He’s asleep, mouth slightly open, hair messy, one eyebrow twitching like he’s mid-dream. And I feel it again. That tug in my chest.
God, I love him.
Not in the dramatic, heart-exploding way. Not in the nineteen-year-old, can’t-breathe-without-you way.
But in the steady, familiar, “you are my person” way.
I trace my finger lightly over his collarbone and he stirs.
“Mmm,” he mutters. “Morning.”
His voice is rough with sleep.
“Morning,” I whisper.
He opens one eye, then the other. A slow grin spreads across his face.
“Well. You’re glowing.”
I roll my eyes. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious,” he murmurs, pulling me closer. “You look…”
His thumb brushes along my jaw.
“Happy.”
Something settles in my chest at that.
Because I am. Not euphoric. Not fixed. Not magically healed. Just… lighter.
The kids eventually thunder in, because of course they do. But even that feels softer somehow. Less sharp around the edges.
Oscar complains about cereal distribution fairness.
Sophie announces she needs a cardboard box for a project she forgot to mention. Ruby appears wearing someone else’s knickers on her head.
Normal chaos.
But Dan doesn’t vanish into the kitchen with his coffee.
He’s in it. He pours cereal. He finds the cardboard box. He wipes milk off the counter without being asked.
And when I catch his eye across the kitchen, he winks.
A stupid, teenage wink.
And my stomach flips.
The school run is smooth again. We move around each other easily, like we’ve remembered the choreography.
At the school gates, he squeezes my hand before peeling off toward work.
“See you at home,” he says.
There’s something loaded in the way he says it.
