CHAPTER 41

Days went by and the stillness in the apartment still lingered. The kind that stretches time into something unfamiliar. Abigail was asleep in her crib, wrapped in a pink blanket with tiny clouds stitched into it. The soft rise and fall of her tiny chest, the sweet little sighs she makes in her dreams—they calmed me. But only for a moment, because beyond that door, Dante exists. And with him, all the tension we’ve both refused to speak of. It was like being on the edge of a cliff, knowing if either of us leaned in just a little more, we’d fall.

We’d been dancing around each other like the sharp edges of broken glass—always too close, always too dangerous. Since we brought Abigail home, we’ve both busied ourselves with the newborn chaos: feedings, late-night cries, bottle warmers, burp cloths, diapers. But under it all, that thing between us—it hadn’t gone away. If anything, it’s deepened, quietly.

This evening, I found a single mug in the sink—his. Still warm from the coffee he probabl