The house was dim when Jensen stepped in, the evening sun casting golden slants across the hardwood floors. The moment the door shut behind him, the sound of your baby crying from upstairs sliced through the quiet.

You were already up there, rocking your one-year-old against your shoulder, murmuring soft nothings to soothe him. Your eyes flicked toward the doorway as Jensen leaned on it, keys still in hand. You noticed the tired expression on his face, but it was laced with something colder—detachment.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He nodded. “Hey.” No smile. Just that familiar, distant look.

You shifted the baby gently and whispered, “Rough day?”

He shrugged. “Just… hectic.” Then he added, “They’ve got this school project, Arrow and Zeppelin. Danneel’s been running herself ragged with it.”

There it was. Her name again. He always made sure to mention her—like a built-in defense mechanism, as if saying her name up front erased suspicion.

You forced a small smile and nodded, but your chest ached.

He stood there a beat too long before mumbling, “I’ll go get a shower.”

You watched him walk away and felt it—the air between you was no longer warm. It had been a slow descent after the baby was born. The sleepless nights, the constant giving of yourself, the small touches that disappeared one by one.

You tried, god you tried. After a few months, you’d worked up the courage to crawl over to his side of the bed one night, kissed the nape of his neck, whispered you missed him—but he just mumbled “not tonight” and turned away. You hadn’t tried again since. Not really. How could you beg your husband to want you?

Now it had been a year. Twice. You’d had sex twice in a whole year. You stopped wearing the lingerie he used to love. Stopped lighting the candles. Stopped hoping.

And every time he visited his kids, you wondered. Wondered if maybe he never really left Danneel behind. If maybe it was easier for him to keep showing up there—where he was still the guy from before. Where he didn’t have to see the dark circles under your eyes, the spit-up on your shirt, or the way you flinched when he avoided your touch.

Your baby finally settled in your arms, sniffling and hiccupping. You pressed a kiss to his warm forehead and whispered, “You deserve the world, little guy.” You weren’t sure what you deserved anymore.