The weather that July had been unusually generous. For once, England felt almost Mediterranean — the sun hovered high above the treetops, scattering warm golden reflections across the leaves, turning the garden paths into patches of moving light. By August, the warmth had settled into something steady and gentle, less blazing, more like a soft embrace. The air smelled faintly of lavender from your sister’s yard and freshly cut grass from the neighbors’.

You and Alex had driven down that afternoon, the windows half open so the warm breeze could sneak in. You were buzzing with a quiet excitement — you hadn’t yet met your niece, born four months ago, and the anticipation sat in your chest like a fluttering bird. Alex walked beside you up the driveway, slipping car’s keys into his pocket, then handing you the pastel gift bag you’d spent too long choosing yesterday. He didn’t say anything, but the way he brushed his fingers against yours made you feel grounded.

Inside, your sister’s house smelled like jasmine tea and baby lotion — soft, warm, a little sleepy. A small dachshund skidded around your ankles, nails clicking excitedly against the wooden floor. And then you saw her — your sister standing by the light-filled window, holding the tiny girl against her chest. The baby blinked up at the world with those not-quite-focused newborn eyes, flinching slightly at the streaks of sunlight that filtered through the curtains.

Your breath caught. She was smaller than you imagined, fragile and perfect. A tear slipped down your cheek before you even reached them.

You didn’t hesitate, almost running the last few steps. Your sister laughed softly, tired but glowing, as she placed the baby carefully into your arms. Alex lingered in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe with a faintly awkward smile. You could tell he didn’t quite know where to put his hands, but his eyes softened when he looked at you. You must’ve looked different — your whole face lit up, shoulders loose, cradling the tiny girl like she was something sacred. When her miniature fingers curled around yours, everything in the room seemed to slow.

The afternoon drifted by in that lazy, August way — slow conversations, half-finished cups of tea left on coasters, the dachshund sleeping belly-up on the rug. You talked about everything and nothing: the baby’s eating schedule, your sister’s plans for her garden, gossip from your old neighborhood. Alex joined in sometimes, but mostly he sat quietly on the sofa, watching you two with soft amusement, occasionally letting the baby grip the tip of his finger with a strength that surprised him.

Later, you all dimmed the lights and stood by the cradle, humming gently as she drifted to sleep, tiny chest rising and falling like a steady tide. You felt peaceful in a way you hadn’t in months.

By the time you drove home, the sky had shifted to a deeper blue, the sun long gone but the warmth still lingering in the air. The world outside the windows blurred into silhouettes — quiet houses, empty footpaths, the distant hum of summer insects. Alex drove with one hand on the wheel, sunglasses still on despite the late hour, the corners of his mouth relaxed. He seemed calm, but you could always tell when something was pulling at him from the inside. When his silence wasn’t emptiness, but thought.

You turned slightly in your seat, studying him.

“Alex…” you said quietly, your voice cutting gently through the soft whir of the car.

“Hmmm?” he murmured, eyes still on the road, but you felt his attention shift instantly.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, maybe unconsciously, or maybe he sensed what was on your tongue.