The house felt different now—quieter, but fuller somehow. Bringing Abigail home had changed the entire atmosphere, as if everything had softened around the edges. I stood in the nursery, watching her tiny chest rise and fall with each breath. She looked so peaceful, wrapped in the pale yellow blanket Dante had picked out. I still couldn't believe she was here, that she was mine. My mind was taken back to the memories of how Marcus and I planned life would be when we finally got a child, how we always spoke about all the nice things we would get her, and all the nice places we would take her to. It was really emotional for me, because I never imagined things would turn out the way that they did.
Dante walked in quietly, carrying a small stuffed bear. He paused at the doorway when he saw me, his gaze flickering between me and the baby. "She's sleeping?" he whispered.
I nodded, giving him a small smile. "Out like a light."
He stepped closer, placing the bear next to Abigail. "You should rest too. You've barely slept since we got home."
"I'm fine," I lied. In truth, exhaustion was beginning to seep into my bones, but I couldn't tear myself away from Abigail. Every time I looked at her, it was like the world shrank down to just the two of us, a feeling I couldn't still fathom, but it was one of pure joy and overwhelming happiness.
Dante placed a hand on my shoulder, and I couldn't help but lean into his touch. "You can't take care of her if you're running on fumes," he murmured, his voice softer than usual.
I hesitated, but his words made sense. He guided me out of the nursery and toward the bedroom. "I'll keep an eye on her. Go lie down," he insisted.
I didn't argue, too tired to put up much of a fight. As I sank into the mattress, I heard him softly humming in the nursery—a low, soothing sound that made my chest ache with something I didn't want to name.
The next few days passed in a blur of feedings, diaper changes, and stolen moments of sleep. Dante was more hands-on than I expected, constantly checking on Abigail and making sure I was okay. There were moments when I'd catch him cradling her, whispering words I couldn't quite make out. He'd look up, catch my gaze, and quickly avert his eyes, like he was embarrassed to be caught being soft.
One night, I was in the living room, nursing Abigail while Dante worked at his laptop. The quiet between us was comfortable, but there was an underlying tension—like we both wanted to say something but didn't know how. Abigail finished eating and dozed off in my arms.
Dante glanced up, noticing my struggle to adjust her in my grip. He set his laptop aside and moved closer. "Here, let me take her."
Our hands brushed as he gently lifted Abigail, and I couldn't help the warmth that spread through me. He rocked her with practiced ease, his gaze focused on her tiny face. "She's beautiful, just like her mother" he whispered.
"She really is," I replied, barely more than a breath.
We stood there, so close, our daughter the only thing between us. I felt his eyes on me again, and when I met his gaze, there was something unspoken lingering between us. I wanted to reach out, to bridge the gap that always seemed to grow between us whenever we got too close. But I couldn't. Not yet.
Dante must have sensed my hesitation because he shifted back, focusing on Abigail. "I'll put her down," he said, and I let him go without a word.
After he left, I couldn't help but replay the moment in my mind, wondering why it felt so complicated to just let myself feel whatever this was. Dante was kind, attentive, and so good with Abigail. Part of me wanted to lean into that warmth, to admit that I didn't just want him around for Abigail's sake, but also for mine.
The days continued, filled with quiet moments and soft exchanges. There was a comfortable routine forming, but it didn't change the fact that every touch, every shared glance, felt loaded with everything we weren't saying. I didn't know how to break the cycle without risking too much—without risking my heart.
One evening, Dante made dinner—a simple pasta dish—and I found myself lingering in the kitchen, just to be near him. He looked over his shoulder, surprised to see me there.
"Thought you'd be resting," he commented, stirring the sauce.
"I just... didn't want to be alone," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
His expression softened. "You don't have to be."
It was such a simple statement, but it hit me like a wave. I swallowed the lump in my throat, unsure of how to respond. Instead, I watched him cook, trying to ignore the way my heart pounded in my chest. We ate in relative silence, both of us too cautious to say what was really on our minds.
After dinner, Dante volunteered to do the dishes while I put Abigail down. When I returned, he was wiping the counter, looking almost lost in thought. I hesitated at the doorway, wondering if I should say something—anything to break this strange, aching distance between us. But before I could gather my thoughts, he looked up, and our eyes met. For a moment, it felt like time stood still.
But just as quickly, he looked away, mumbling something about getting some work done. I watched him leave, frustration bubbling up inside me. How could we be so close and yet feel so far apart? I wanted to call him back, to demand an answer, but the words stuck in my throat.
In the quiet aftermath, I found myself wondering if this was just how it was going to be—always skirting around our feelings, never daring to cross that line. I just didn't know how much longer I could take it.