I don’t think I’ve ever been scared of losing Emma to another man. I’ve been scared of losing her to exhaustion. To resentment.
To the slow erosion that happens when two people stop seeing each other because they’re too busy surviving.
When she stands at the kettle in the morning and stares at nothing, I see it now. The weight. The running-on-empty. And I hate that I used to think a bum grab counted as intimacy.
It doesn’t.
Not if she’s drowning.
I’ve been trying. Actually trying. Not the performative, “look at me loading the dishwasher” kind. The quiet kind.
Noticing when the laundry basket is full and just doing it. Answering the school email before she does. Buying batteries without being told. Taking Ruby when she’s ill without making it sound heroic.
And something strange has happened.
I don’t feel like I’m helping.
I feel like I’m parenting.
Like this is just… my job. Our job. Not hers.
And when I stopped expecting something in return, something shifted.
She leaned into me on the sofa last night. Unprompted. Just rested her head against my chest. No tension. No calculation. Just closeness. It did more for me than any quick, tired, half-resentful sex ever could.
But here’s the truth I’m not proud of. I still miss it. The heat. The hunger. The reckless, can’t-keep-our-hands-off-each-other version of us.
And sometimes, when weeks slip by and we’re back to pecks and logistics, a small, selfish part of me panics.
What if this is just… marriage now?
What if that spark only comes in bursts?
What if the chaos always wins?
I don’t say it out loud. Because I don’t want to put more pressure on her. But I feel it. The insecurity.
The wondering if she still sees me that way.
Tonight, after the cupcakes, after the laughter, after she went upstairs to shower, I stayed in the kitchen longer than I needed to. I wiped down counters that didn’t need wiping. I stood there in the quiet and tried to be honest with myself.
Do I want sex?
Yes.
Do I want Emma?
God, yes.
But more than that?
I want her not to feel like she’s failing at everything. I want her to look at me the way she did in that restaurant again. I want to be the person she relaxes around. Not the person she feels owes something to. That’s harder work. Less immediate reward. No gold stars. No guaranteed outcome. Just effort. Real effort.
She comes downstairs eventually, hair damp, oversized t-shirt on, smelling like her shampoo. She looks tired. Beautiful. Human.
I open my mouth to say something clever. Flirty. Light. Instead, I just say, “Come here.”
She raises an eyebrow but walks over. I pull her into my chest and hold her. Just hold her. After a second, she melts into me. And quietly, against my shirt, she exhales. And I realise something. This, this right here, might be the real spark. Not the fireworks.
