I could have lost her.
The thought alone twists something sharp and unbearable in my chest.
The apartment didn’t burn to the ground, but smoke ruined almost everything. Tate’s things. Jules’ things. Now they’re both here living under my roof. Something I’ve wanted for so long, but not like this. Not because of fear and loss.
She stirs next to me, a soft sigh slipping past her lips as her hand reaches blindly for mine in sleep. As soon as our fingers touch, I thread mine through hers, holding on like I’m terrified she’ll disappear if I don’t.
Something tightens deep in my chest, a mix of relief and longing.
Yesterday, when they let us into the apartment to see what could be salvaged, the first thing Jules did was rush into her bedroom. She emerged minutes later with her wedding band.The gold and diamond one I gave her the day I promised to love her forever. She slipped it onto her right hand and hasn’t taken it off since.
I haven’t asked her why she kept it. Why she’s wearing it now. Maybe I’m scared of the answer.
Or maybe I already know.
But more than anything, I don’t want to push her. She’s been running on empty—anxious, shaken, barely holding herself together. And every night since she’s been here, she falls asleep tangled up in me like I’m her anchor. Like I’m the only thing keeping her steady.
And I guess… maybe I am.
What I don’t know is how to explain any of this to Tate.
Why she’s in my bed. Why I’m holding her when she wakes up shaking and breathless. Why neither of us can seem to let go.
Maybe because we never really did.
Maybe because we love each other. Always have.
I hear Tate’s small feet padding across the hallway, the sound soft but certain. And for a second, I’m torn. Stay here with Jules, wrapped up in the only peace I’ve felt in days, or get up and be the dad Tate deserves.
The bedroom door creaks open, and Tate pokes his head in, his blond hair sticking up on one side. I gently pull my hand from Jules’ and tug the covers a little higher over her shoulders. She shifts, murmuring something in her sleep, but doesn’t wake.
The ache to lean down and press a kiss to her forehead nearly undoes me. But I force myself to pull away, taking one last glance at her peaceful face before I step into the hall and close the door softly behind me.
Tate looks up at me, his little brow furrowed. “Is Mommy okay?”
I kneel so we’re eye level, resting a hand on his shoulder. “She’s okay, bud. She’s just resting.”
His frown deepens, but then he brightens a little. “We should make her an omelet,” he says, like that’s all it’ll take to make the world right again. “They’re her favorite.”
I smile, ruffling his messy hair. “Yeah? Well, let’s make her an omelet. And pancakes, too.”
Tate’s eyes light up, and he takes off down the stairs, his little feet thudding with purpose. I follow behind, feeling like I’m leaving half my heart in that room with Jules.
In the kitchen, we settle into a rhythm—whisking eggs, mixing pancake batter. Tate stands on a chair beside me, concentrating hard as he stirs, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth in focus. I guide his hand when he struggles to flip a pancake, letting him take the lead as much as I can.
Butter hisses on the skillet, the smell of pancakes and bacon filling the air. For a few minutes, it feels almost normal.
But I can’t stop thinking about her.
When the food’s nearly ready, I hear her footsteps on the stairs, soft and hesitant.
And then she’s there, standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing one of my flannel shirts that hangs loose over her curves, her legs bare, her curls wild and messy from sleep.
She looks beautiful and fragile in a way that makes my heart twist.
Tate doesn’t hesitate. He runs right to her, wrapping his little arms around her waist. She smiles and smooths a hand over his hair, leaning into him like she needs his strength just as much as he needs hers.
I turn away, busying my hands by plating pancakes and bacon, but I can’t stop watching her out of the corner of my eye.
