I grab a cool washcloth and a glass of water, then make my way to Tate’s room. Corbin is perched on the edge of the bed,his large frame somehow making the space feel smaller. I place the water on the nightstand and gently press the damp cloth to Tate’s forehead.
“I don’t like this,” Tate whimpers, shifting uncomfortably under the blankets.
“I know, baby,” I say softly. “I don’t like it either.”
Tate’s lower lip trembles. “Leo had the stomach bug on Monday. I think he gave it to me.”
“He probably did,” I murmur sympathetically.
As I straighten, Corbin rises, and suddenly, he’sclose. The heat from his body wraps around me, pulling me into his orbit. I don’t step away. I should, but I don’t.
Tate’s glassy blue eyes flick between us. “You’re gonna stay, right, Dad?”
“I’ll stay,” Corbin promises without hesitation.
Tate sniffles. “Can you read me a story?”
Corbin’s hand grazes the small of my back as he moves around me, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. His touch is brief, but it lingers.God, why does it still affect me like this?
“What book do we want to read?” Corbin asks, already scanning the bookshelf.
“Something funny,” Tate mumbles, his eyelids growing heavy.
Corbin selects a book and settles back onto the bed. I linger for a second, watching the way Tate relaxes as Corbin flips to the first page. The sight is too much—too tender, too intimate.
I slip out quietly, giving them their moment.
Back in the kitchen, I clean out the trash can, then grab a small bucket for Tate from the hallway closet before turning on the teapot. The routine keeps my hands busy, but my thoughts wander.
This is what we should’ve been. The two of us, raising our son together. Taking care of him as a team.Why did it take a divorce for us to finally get it right?
By the time I return to Tate’s room, his little body is curled up under the covers, but the moment he spots me, his face twists in discomfort.
“Oh, no.” I rush forward, handing the bucket to Corbin just as Tate lurches. Our fingers graze—warm, solid, lingering just for a second too long.
Tate whimpers. “I don’t wanna throw up again.”
Corbin’s voice is gentle but firm. “I know, bud. But the sooner you do, the sooner it’ll be over.”
My chest tightens as I kneel beside them, rubbing soothing circles on Tate’s back. His tiny body trembles, but he clings to the both of us, needing our comfort.
And even through his misery, I can see it. The small flicker of relief in his tired eyes. His parents, standing together. Existing in the same space.
For him.
And for some reason, that realization makes it even harder to breathe.
It goes on for several more hours. Every thirty minutes, Tate throws up. And every thirty minutes, Corbin and I are there rubbing his back, wiping his face, murmuring reassurances until his exhausted little body finally collapses into sleep.
By the time it’s over, I feel like I’ve been through a war.
Corbin scrubs a hand down his face. “He’s out cold.”
I nod, exhaustion settling into my bones. “Come on,” I motion toward my bedroom. “Let’s get some sleep while we can.”
He glances down the hall, toward the front door. “I’ll head home.”
It’s half-hearted at best. He’s too tired to argue, but he’s still trying.
