He shares custody.

Not that he minds— some custody is better than none— but it’s become a simple fact at the moment. It took a while to get use to the running back and forth between your place and his, to having to gently explain that mommy and daddy have to separate and despite their separation they will always love the two of them, and the plain dread that wires through his body when he remembers that, at any moment, you could decide you want to get back into the dating world and find another partner.

It keeps him up at night.

But he doesn’t mind the dropping off and picking up of Antonio and Lorenzo. It gives him an excuse to see you. You and your nurse scrubs because you’re finally putting your degree to use and working at a nearby hospital.

He doesn’t quite understand why— he’s offered to pay for your bills and rent and the costs that come with having kids. But you’ve yet to take him up on it, to his dismay. He finds himself doing it automatically. Paying your rent, covering your groceries. He does it every week or so, and every time you tell him to stop.

He’s not going to. Why would he?

He supposes you’ve started working again because you want to be independent. You’ve always been like that— independent and self-reliant. It took a lot to finally ween you off your guard and allow him to dote on and spoil you.

His cheating ruined that, though. His cheating has seemed to ruin everything that he once loved.

He rolls down the window of his Porsche, sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, blocking his eyes. He’s in an Armani suit today. His hair is perfectly styled. He is perfectly styled.

His arm rests on the doorframe, his hand hanging out lazily. His wedding band is still on there. He often refuses to take it off. He wouldn’t be surprised that if, a couple years from now, it’d be impossible to remove.

It doesn’t sound like a bad proposition.

He watches as you walk out from your door, dressed in your usual scrubs and a black jacket, your hair held back by a headband. Antonio and Lorenzo are behind you, but immediately run up to Giovanni’s car like he’s a Christmas tree with gifts underneath it.

He practically is, honestly.

He smiles that dimpled, genuine, rare smiles that he only reserves for you and the boys. He opens the door and steps out, gathering the boys in his arms and hugging them tightly, warmly.

He glances up at, and his smile only slightly fades because he can see the annoyance on your face. He doesn’t blame you, really. He never could. He just doesn’t like seeing you anything other than joyous and happy.

He wishes he was the one that brought that emotion to you.