Chapter 27: Slow is Still a Start
That night, after our talk, something between us shifted—softly, but noticeably. There was no grand declaration or dramatic moment. Just quiet understanding. A shared promise in the way we looked at each other.
The next morning, I found Ozaire in the kitchen making breakfast—not just for Oliver, but for me too. For the first time in days, I didn't stop him. I sat at the counter, watching him flip pancakes, the smell of butter and vanilla filling the air.
"You're letting me cook?" he teased gently, glancing over his shoulder.
"I am," I said with a faint smile. "Don't let it go to your head."
He chuckled, and it was the first real laugh we shared in what felt like a while.
Over the next few weeks, we eased into something more open. We started having real conversations again—about parenting, our childhoods, our fears, even the awkward parts of our situation. We didn't try to label what we were. Instead, we focused on being present with each other, one day at a time.
There were moments when things still felt uncertain. Like when I'd catch him deep in thought, or when I hesitated before reaching out to touch his hand. But more and more, we learned how to close the distance instead of avoid it.
One night, after putting Oliver to sleep, I came out to find Ozaire sitting on the floor with a photo album he'd dug out from one of his boxes. I sat beside him without a word.
He passed me a picture—one of him as a child, beaming in front of a birthday cake. "My mom made that cake from scratch every year," he said quietly. "She wasn't perfect, but she tried."
I nodded, studying the photo. "We'll try too."
He turned to me, his expression soft. "I want us to be more than just co-parents. Not because of obligation… but because I feel something with you that I haven't felt in a long time."
I held his gaze, heart thudding in my chest. "I want that too. But I need to take it slow. Not just for me—for Oliver too."
"Then slow it is," he said. "But let's not stop."
And we didn't. Some days were messy, some were warm. But with each one, we built something real—not perfect, not defined by anyone else's expectations—but ours.
Ours, and Oliver's.
And when I thought everything was going into place. Another challenge came up.
Ozaire's POV
A few weeks had passed since that quiet, honest conversation with Ophira—the one that finally cracked open the space between us. Since then, things shifted. Not in a dramatic way, but in a real one.
Ophira started letting me in again. At first, it was the small things—accepting breakfast, letting me rock Oliver to sleep, or sitting beside me in silence after long days. But even in silence, I could feel it—her guard lowering, piece by piece.
And me? I was already in. I think I always had been. Loving her wasn't new. What was new was the permission to actually act on it.
That morning, I was making breakfast like usual. The scent of eggs and toast filled the air, and I could hear Oliver cooing softly from his crib.
Then the doorbell rang.
I wiped my hands and walked over, not thinking much of it. But when I opened the door, I froze.
Katie.
She stood there in a soft pink coat, her hair pinned back like she'd stepped out of another life I barely recognized anymore. And she was smiling.
"Katie?"
"Hello, Ozaire," she said, her voice gentle. "I… I just wanted to say sorry. For what happened a year ago."
The words hit harder than I expected—like a ghost brushing past skin. Cold, unexpected, but brief.
"I know I hurt you," she continued. "And for a long time, I didn't think I owed you anything. But I realize now that I do. You didn't deserve what I did—leaving, going quiet, pretending none of it mattered. It did."
I didn't say anything. Not yet. She glanced past my shoulder—and I knew Ophira was standing there, quietly, protectively.
Katie seemed to register it with a small nod. "I'm happy you're doing well," she added. "I just wanted to say that. And… I won't bother you again."
Then she handed me something—an envelope.
A wedding invitation.
I stared at it for a beat, before finally finding my voice. "Katie."
She paused, eyes meeting mine.
"Thank you. For saying that."
She gave a small, bittersweet smile and walked away.
I closed the door slowly, leaned back against it, and let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. There was no bitterness, no ache. Just… clarity.
I turned and saw Ophira in the hallway, holding Oliver close. She said nothing, but her eyes held a quiet question.
"Who was it?" she asked, voice soft, pretending she hadn't seen anything.
I walked over, kissed Oliver's forehead, and met her gaze.
"Someone from the past," I said, "but they're staying there."
And I meant it.
I kissed Ophira. She looked surprised—still not used to the affection—but she didn't pull away. That meant something.
Back in the kitchen, I plated the food in comfortable silence. She moved around me, settling Oliver into his bassinet nearby.
Then I said it—gently, but with meaning. "That day… when you saw me watching her videos…"
I placed the last dish on the table and looked up.
"I was actually deleting them."
She paused, mid-reach for a spoon. Her eyes locked with mine.
"I wasn't holding on," I added. "I was letting go."
The silence between us was no longer heavy. It was full. Full of things unsaid but deeply felt.
Ophira gave me a long look, then finally spoke, her voice quiet.
"I know," she said. "I think… I needed to hear it, though."
I nodded, walking over to her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're the only one I see now. You and Oliver… you're everything."
This wasn't a promise made in the heat of the moment. It was steady. True.
And in that quiet kitchen, with the morning light streaming in, something unspoken between us finally settled into place.
Ophira's POV: 'Oliver's' growth
Month One: Rhythm
The days start to fall into a pattern—diaper changes, late-night feedings, soft lullabies in the dark. Oliver begins to smile more often, his eyes tracking our movements, his hands reaching out with growing curiosity.
Ozaire is there through it all—always just close enough, never overstepping. He makes coffee while I rock Oliver, folds tiny laundry beside me while we talk about nothing and everything.
We don't speak of "us," but sometimes, when we pass each other in the kitchen or our hands brush during midnight baby duty, the silence says more than words could.
Month Two: Familiarity
I catch myself humming while cooking, wearing his hoodie without thinking. Ozaire doesn't say anything when I do—just watches with a faint smile before handing me a cup of tea, always just how I like it.
We take Oliver for walks in the park. People glance at us and assume we're a family. Ozaire never corrects them. I don't either.
Sometimes, I wake up and realize I've fallen asleep on his shoulder. Other nights, he stays awake while Oliver sleeps on his chest, eyes heavy with exhaustion but peaceful.
One evening, I see him sketching something. It's a small drawing of Oliver nestled between two figures. He doesn't explain it. He doesn't need to.
Month Three: Closeness
Oliver laughs now. A real, belly-deep laugh that makes us laugh too. Ozaire's hands are always gentle—steady, capable. He plays with Oliver like it's second nature, like he's waited his whole life for this.
We start sharing more—quiet dreams, small memories, the little aches and joys of the past. Sometimes, we cook dinner together and dance in the kitchen. Not a dramatic waltz, but something soft, quiet—almost like breathing.
Still, no labels.
But when Ozaire reaches for my hand without thinking, and I don't pull away—when I fall asleep on the couch and wake up under a blanket he placed around me—I start to wonder if we even need one.
Maybe, whatever we are… it's already here.
"Not all love begins with fireworks. Some just begin… and stay."