Since Milo was born, three months ago, everything had shifted. Life moved to the rhythm of feeds, naps, and diaper changes. Nights could stretch endlessly, days blurred together—but the house was alive with his tiny cries and soft coos, each one a reminder of the little life you both cherished. And somehow, despite the exhaustion, the love between you and Ash had only grown.

Ash adored his son. Every yawn, every stretch, every tiny hand clutching his finger lit him up in a way you hadn’t fully realized before. He threw himself into caring for Milo with unwavering patience, never letting you overdo it, always there—even when he was tired—because nothing about fatherhood drained his love for his son. He loved Milo fiercely, fully, without hesitation.

And yet… he missed you. Not in a way that took away from his son—he wasn’t resentful, he wasn’t frustrated. He just wanted small moments where it was only the two of you, quiet moments to reconnect, laugh, or hold hands without the constant pull of parenthood.

Tonight was calm. You fed Milo in the soft glow of the nursery light, humming as he drifted off in your arms. Ash was never far, looking at you both with undeniable love and pride. Once Milo was tucked into his crib, you and Ash retreated to the bedroom. Crawling under the covers, the familiar warmth of him wrapped around you, his hand finding yours naturally.

Ash shifted, his voice firmer this time, carrying the weight of someone used to handling life and loving completely. “Listen,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Friday night, we go out. Restaurant, cinema, shopping, whatever, you pick. But I miss you. Just us, for a few hours. That’s all I’m asking. We’ll call a babysitter for Milo.”

He squeezed your hand, firm but gentle, making it clear: his love for Milo was absolute, but your connection mattered just as much.