"I can make something," I offer.
"You're supposed to be resting." He's already heading to the kitchen as he says it. "I'll handle it."
He makes pasta—nothing fancy, just spaghetti with marinara and garlic bread. But he sets the table and pours water for both of us, then sits down across from me like this is something we do all the time.
The conversation is stilted at first. I can feel the awkwardness in the air, prickling my skin.
"How are you feeling?" Luca looks up from his pasta.
"Better. The cramping stopped."
"Good. That's good."
There’s silence for a few beats, and then I try.
"Work was busy today?"
He reaches for his glass of water. "Yeah. Territorial dispute. Nothing major."
I bite my lip, twirling pasta around my fork. There’s the clink of utensils, the sound of eating, and then Luca speaks again.
“Should we start thinking about what to do with the nursery?”
My head jerks up. I stare at him, unsure of what to say. “We have time,” I manage finally, my voice shaky. I don’t understand what’s changed, but I’m afraid to test it, afraid that it will break the way he seems to think I might if he doesn’t watch me all the time.
"I know. But it doesn't hurt to plan ahead." He takes a bite of pasta and chews thoughtfully. "What do you want? For the nursery, I mean."
The question catches me off guard. "I don't know. I haven't really thought about it."
"Think about it." His eyes meet mine. "We should probably start looking at furniture soon. Cribs, changing tables, all that."
"Okay." I don't know what else to say.
We finish dinner in silence, and when I start to clear the plates, he stops me.
"I've got it. Go rest."
"Luca—"
"Giulia." He takes the plates from my hands. "Let me do this."
So I do. By the end of the week, we've fallen into a routine. He comes home, and we have dinner together. We talk about the baby, the house, and his work in vague terms. We don’t talk about us at all, what we used to be or what we briefly were again for those couple of weeks, or what happens now. But I can feel the tension in the air between us, slowly building. I catch him looking at me sometimes, his eyes dark and hungry and conflicted. And I know he catches me looking, too.
But I don’t try to bridge the gap. As much as I want him—as much as I ache for the connection we had before everything fell apart—I'm terrified of what will happen if I reach for him and he pulls away.
The next night, about a week after the hospital, we're sitting in the living room after dinner. I’m reading a book, and he’s reading reports, his laptop open on the coffee table.
"Have you thought about names?" he asks suddenly.
I look up, surprised. "Names?"
"For the baby." He closes his laptop, giving me his full attention. "We should probably start thinking about it."
"I—yeah. I guess we should." I set down my book. "Do you have any preferences?"
"Not really. I haven't thought about it much." He leans back, his expression thoughtful. "What about you?"
"I always liked traditional Italian names. But nothing too common." I hesitate. "What about family names? Is there anyone who would matter to you?"
