His other hand found my waist and settled there. I felt the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of my shirt. He wasn’t pulling me closer, not yet; he was just holding me, as if he needed an anchor to keep from drifting away.
My hands moved without permission, rising tohis chest. My palms flattened against the worn cotton of his shirt, and beneath my fingers, I felt it: his heartbeat. It was fast and hard, a frantic rhythm that matched my own. I wondered if he could feel mine, too, if he could feel how much I was trembling.
His eyes searched my face, looking for doubt, for permission, or perhaps for something I didn't have the words for yet.
"I've wanted—" He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "For so long, I've?—"
He didn't finish. Didn't have to.
It was so clear to me then: I’d wanted this, too. I’d been wanting him without letting myself name it, wanting him while pretending I wasn’t, wanting him in the jagged spaces between grief and guilt and all the reasons this shouldn’t happen.
His forehead dropped to mine, just resting there, our breath mingling in the small space between us. I closed my eyes, letting myself feel the weight of him, the warmth, the impossible tenderness of it all.
His nose brushed against mine. It wasn’t a kiss, not yet. Just the promise of one, hovering in the air. My fingers curled into his shirt, and I felt his hand tighten on my waist in response.
I tilted my chin up.
His lips were so close I could almost taste them. One breath away. One heartbeat. The whole world had narrowed to this kitchen, this man, this moment that felt like standing on the edge of a cliff.
I was going to jump. I wanted to.
His mouth brushed mine, barely there. The ghost of a kiss, soft as a question.
We were almost there, just a heartbeat away, but then Gabrielle wailed.
It was sharp and insistent, the kind of cry that meant she needed something right now.
Cal froze. His hand was still on my face, his breath still warm on my lips, the ghost of that kiss lingering between us. For a moment, neither of us moved, trapped in the orbit of what almost happened. Then the cry came again, louder this time, more urgent.
Cal exhaled a shaky breath and stepped back. He ran a hand through his hair, looking dazed, as if he were waking up from a dream he wasn't ready to leave.
"I'll get her."
He crossed to the bouncer, lifted Gabrielle with hands that weren't quite steady. She quieted almost immediately, her cries softening to whimpers as he held her against his chest, murmuring something I couldn't hear.
I gripped the counter behind me and tried to remember how to breathe.
We didn't talk about it.
Cal walked Gabrielle around the apartment while I finished wiping down the counters, both of us moving carefully around each other. He didn’t touchme again, nor did he look at me directly. He simply paced the small living room with the baby against his shoulder, his hand rubbing slow, rhythmic circles on her back.
I watched him from the corner of my eye. The gentle way he held her. The soft words he murmured when she fussed. He was so good with her. Had been from the very first night, when he'd walked into the café cradling her like she was already his.
What would have happened if she hadn't cried?
The question made my chest burn, because I knew the answer. We both did.
Gabrielle's eyes started to droop. Cal caught my gaze, tilted his head toward the bedroom. I nodded.
We put her to bed together. I smoothed the sheets while he laid her down, his movements careful and precise. She stirred once, made a small sound, then settled into sleep.
We stood there for a moment, side by side, watching her breathe.
"She's getting bigger," Cal whispered to not wake her up.
"Every day."
"She'll be crawling before we know it. Getting into everything."
