The space between us

The house was quiet after dinner. Anthony was down for the night, curled up with his stuffed sloth and the lullaby playlist I now knew by heart. Joe had gone out to give us space. It was just me and Doc in the living room, the air between us thick with the silence of everything unsaid.

I sat cross-legged on the couch, nursing a cup of chamomile tea, wrapped in one of Doc’s oversized sweaters. He watched me from the other end, one arm draped across the back of the couch, body angled toward mine like he was ready to close the distance—but waiting for permission.

“You saw him today,” he said finally, his voice low, careful.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

He didn’t ask what happened, and I loved him for that. Instead, he just reached out and gently rested his hand over my foot.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly, staring down into the swirl of my tea. “But I think I need to.”

He waited, patient as always.

“I thought seeing Tio would make everything make sense. Like I’d finally slam the door on that chapter and walk into this new life with clarity.” I paused, chewing my bottom lip. “But it didn’t feel like closure. It felt like mourning something that never got the chance to live.”

Doc nodded slowly, his fingers gently brushing along my ankle.

“You loved him,” he said softly. “That doesn’t just vanish.”

“It wasn’t just love. It was… chaos, and hope, and fear all tied together. He was the first person who made me believe I could survive the past. But he also became part of what I needed to survive from.”

Doc didn’t flinch. He didn’t try to compete with a ghost. He just leaned forward and said, “I want you to know… I’m not here to replace what you lost. I’m just here to love what’s still here.”

Something in my chest cracked.

Tears spilled without warning. Not loud or dramatic, just steady and quiet, like grief finally making space for something softer.

Doc moved closer. Not in a rush, but with intention. He pulled me gently into his arms, cradling me like I was breakable and resilient all at once.

“I’m scared,” I whispered into his chest.

“Of what?”

“That I can’t give you what you deserve. That I’m still too tangled in the past to fully show up for the future.”

He kissed the top of my head, slowly and tender.

“You don’t have to be ready all at once. You just have to want to be ready. And you’re already doing that.”

“I’m trying,” I said.

“I know,” he murmured. “And I see you.”

We sat like that for a long while. No expectations. No timelines. Just warmth, breath, and the sound of a heart beating under my cheek that had somehow become home.

Eventually, I looked up at him.

“You said you’d marry me whether I’m pregnant or not.”

“I did.”

“Do you mean it?”

“I do,” he said, his eyes steady, his voice like an anchor. “But only if you want to. Not because of a baby. Not because of the past. Because you choose me. Freely.”

That was the part that made me love him. Not just the safety. Not the way he cared for Anthony like he was his own. Not the way he touched me with reverence. But the way he never tried to own me—only wanted to walk beside me.

I leaned in and kissed him slowly, searching, not with lust, but with intention. A promise. Maybe not forever yet, but a maybe. And that was enough.

When we finally pulled apart, he cupped my cheek.

“So… do you think you’ll marry me?”

“Ask me again,” I said with a half-smile, “when I’m not so full of fear.”

“I’ll ask every day if I have to,” he whispered. “Until the fear turns into something else.”

Later that night, we lay together in bed, skin to skin under soft sheets. There was no urgency, no trying to make a baby, no roles to play. Just two people trying to love each other the best way they knew how.

He traced circles on my back. “What are you thinking?”

“That maybe this is what healing looks like,” I said, drowsy and honest. “Not big moments. Just… this.”

“Then let’s keep doing this,” he said, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “One night at a time.”