This is different.
This is the look of a man who doesn’t know where to put the weapon he’s been carrying in his chest.
He moves through the house like he’s still on a mission. Checks the locks. Pauses at windows. Listens to the quiet like it might be lying.
I don’t say anything.
I just let him.
Emmy is asleep in her crib, her tiny fist curled against her cheek. I watch Saint stand in the doorway longer than he needs to, his shoulders slowly lowering like gravity is finally remembering him.
When he turns back to me, his eyes look… lost.
“Come sit,” I say gently.
He does.
On the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees, staring at the floor like it might give him instructions.
I sit in front of him and take his face in my hands.
“You’re home,” I tell him.
He swallows.
“I don’t know how to be,” he admits.
That breaks something in me.
I press my forehead to his.
“You don’t have to know. Just be here.”
His hands come up slowly, like he’s afraid he might disappear again if he moves too fast.
He holds me.
Not tight.
Careful.
Like I’m something he just got back.
We stay like that for a long time.
Later, when we’re under the covers, he lies on his back staring at the ceiling.
“Every time I closed my eyes, I saw doors,” he says quietly. “Rooms. Corners. Places she could come from.”
“She can’t,” I say. “She’s gone.”
“I know,” he says. “My body doesn’t.”
I roll onto my side and lay my head on his chest.
“Then we’ll teach it,” I whisper. “Together.”
His arm comes around me.
