I don’t tremble.
Ibreathe.
For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, I breathe without pain.
Without doubt.
Just him.
Just us.
Afterward, we’re tangled in the sheets.
His chest is against my back, arm draped heavy over my waist, one leg thrown over mine like he can keep me still just by existing.
His breath is even.
I think he’s asleep.
Caelix’s baby monitor hisses softly in the corner. White noise. A lullaby of static and silence.
And my heart is so full ithurts.
“I lied to you,” I whisper.
The words catch in my throat. I taste them like blood.
But he doesn’t stir.
Doesn’t move.
“I told myself it was to protect him. Or to protect you. But really, it was me. I didn’t want to fall apart in front of you. Didn’t want you to see how scared I was tohope.”
Still nothing.
I close my eyes for a beat—just long enough to find the courage.
“I love you.”
That’s the real secret.
Not biology.
Not paternity.
This.
The way my soul has built a home in him and won’t leave.
He shifts then.
Just enough to tighten his grip.
A sleepy sound escapes him. Not quite a word.
But it sounds a lot like my name.
And I can’t do it.
