The house was quiet in the soft way it only ever seemed to be after midnight. Their daughter was asleep in her bassinet down the hall, her tiny breaths steady and even through the baby monitor. James sat on the couch, half-reclined, a worn T-shirt clinging to his shoulders, slightly damp from where their daughter drooled on him, and an untouched glass of water sweating on the coffee table in front of him.

He wasn’t even pretending to read the book open in his lap anymore.

He hadn’t realized how hard this would be—not the parenting part, though that was exhausting in ways he couldn’t explain, but this. Loving her from arm’s length.

She’d always been magnetic to him, in the kind of way that made him touch her without thinking—his hand finding the small of her back when they walked, a kiss to her neck in the kitchen just because she was there, curled up with her at every chance like he was made to orbit her. And now he still felt that same pull, stronger even, but he kept his distance because he was terrified.

Terrified that if he reached for her, she’d think he was asking too much. That she’d flinch. That she’d see his hunger and mistake it for pressure instead of the love he meant it to be.

He told himself he was doing it for her. That giving her space meant giving her safety.

But God—it was killing him.

A quiet creak pulled his attention to the hallway, and his head snapped up. And then he saw her.

She padded in on bare feet, her hair messy from the shower, skin still dewy from lotion, wearing… Jesus. Those pajamas. The ones that were barely anything at all, soft and clinging in a way that used to undo him instantly. He hadn’t seen them in months, not since before the baby, and the sight hit him like a punch to the ribs.

James went perfectly still.

She didn’t even look at him at first, just moved to the kitchen counter to grab a glass of water, her body swaying with the same effortless rhythm that used to make him lose track of conversations. And she had to know what she was doing—except something about the way she held herself made him pause.

She wasn’t teasing. She wasn’t glowing with the confidence he remembered from before. No, she looked… hesitant. Nervous, even. Like she was bracing herself for disappointment.

Like she thought he wasn’t looking.

The realization tore through him.

She thought he didn’t want her. That he hadn’t been aching for her every damn second of every day since their daughter was born, fighting himself raw not to reach out, not to kiss her, not to drag her into his lap and worship her the way he used to.

He wanted to speak, to say something, but the words caught in his throat. His hands were clenched on his knees, knuckles white, because if he touched her now, he wasn’t sure he could stop. And he was terrified of getting this wrong, of making her feel like all he saw was her body when what he really saw was her, all of her, everything he loved wrapped up in soft curves and tired eyes and strength that left him in awe.