Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You know he’s married. He never pretends otherwise. Luigi is thirty-six, charming in that quiet, intense way that makes women lean in without realizing. He doesn’t wear a ring, his excuse is that it’s uncomfortable, but you know the truth: he doesn’t want to be reminded. You’ve seen his wife once, from a distance. A porcelain doll of a woman, delicate and stiff, the kind men like him are told to marry. The kind that’s silent at family dinners and good with children. A woman who looks like she was born already wearing a white veil. He tells you she was a virgin when they married. That it mattered to his parents. That his mother wept with relief when she met her. “She’s perfect,” they said. “She reminds me of your mother,” they said. And that was the problem. You ask him once, softly, after sex, when the air still hums between your bodies, why he married someone who doesn’t even make him hard. He doesn’t lie. He says, “Because I was supposed to.” His family is old money, conservative, the kind that still cares about bloodlines and dinner party appearances. They wanted him to marry a ghost of a woman, and he did. And now she floats through their shared house in white nightgowns and motherhood dreams, while he spends his nights with you. You’re everything she isn’t. And he loves it. You know how to make him laugh in bed. How to pull his darkness out of him and wear it like perfume. He likes how you speak your mind, how you touch him like you own him. He says you make him feel alive. And when he’s inside you, it’s the only time he forgets the weight of his father’s expectations and his mother’s shadow. Sometimes he tells you he wishes he’d met you first. You don’t say what you’re thinking, that even if he had, he still would’ve married her. Because some cages look too much like home.

You never meant to fall in love with a married man. You met Luigi in the most ordinary way, at a gallery opening downtown. You were there because a friend had begged you to come, and he was there entertaining a client, pretending to know the difference between impressionism and expressionism while sipping champagne like it was just another Thursday. You noticed him immediately, tall, dark curls, with a quiet intensity that seemed at odds with the loud laughter around him. He noticed you, too. Not for the art. Not for the crowd. For the way you stood there, apart, one hand loosely curled around a glass of wine, looking at a painting like it was whispering something only you could hear. Later, he told you he liked that you didn’t try to sell yourself to the room. That you looked like you belonged to no one. The irony still stings. You learned quickly that he worked in finance, a portfolio manager for families whose last names were whispered like currency. His life was polished to perfection: early mornings, late nights, expensive suits, forced smiles. It explained the way he moved, the way he kissed you that first night: like a man who never got to make his own choices. You, on the other hand, lived on the edges of things. A freelance illustrator, you spent your days hunched over sketchbooks, designing book covers, magazine layouts, occasional ad campaigns that tried to borrow your creativity. You worked from home mostly, or sometimes from cafés where the tables were chipped and the coffee bad but the freedom intoxicating. Your life was messy. Fluid. You built your days around your work and, eventually, around him. It didn’t happen all at once.

It wasn't a decision, not really. Not one either of you could point to and say. It happened in fragments. Small moments that felt innocent until they weren't. First, it was just conversation. At the gallery opening, then a few emails exchanged under professional pretenses, talking about art, about life, about everything he couldn’t say at home and everything you didn’t know you were starving to hear. Then it was coffee. A meeting that wasn’t really a meeting. You sat across from each other in a too-bright café, hands close but not touching, laughing too hard at things that weren’t funny. Then it was the night he showed up at one of your exhibitions. Alone. No client to hide behind. No wife at his side. Just him, in a dark coat, looking like he had run out of reasons to pretend. You stood too close to him, pointing at your work, explaining a piece you barely remembered painting. He listened like your voice was the only sound in the room. And when you both looked up at the same time, something shifted. The world got very quiet. Very small. You didn’t kiss him there. You didn't even touch. But that night, when he texted you "I can’t stop thinking about you," something inside you broke loose. You replied before you could talk yourself out of it. "Come over." It was that simple. No declarations. No lies about what it meant. When he arrived, you opened the door, and for a long second, you both just stood there. Breathing. Waiting for the last shred of resistance to give way. It didn’t take long. He kissed you like a man desperate to forget who he was supposed to be. You kissed him back like someone who had been waiting her whole life to be wanted without apology. That night, there was no plan. No promises. Only skin and hands and heat. Only the deep, silent understanding that nothing would be the same after this. And when he left, just before dawn, he didn’t say goodbye. He said, "I’ll see you soon." And you let him. Because it wasn’t a decision. It was gravity.

After that, it became a rhythm: He would text late at night, after work, after family dinners, after pretending. You would open the door without asking questions. He would come in already unbuttoning his collar, already falling apart in your hands. Mostly, he came to you after work, cloaked in the cover of darkness. Sometimes, if he could steal an hour midday, he'd invent a business meeting and rush to you, disheveled and desperate. Rarely, so rarely it felt like a dream, he would come on a Saturday morning under the excuse of golf, smelling of fresh coffee and guilt. Your small apartment became his sanctuary. Not just for lust, but for breathing. For being seen. Always private. Always secret. Always halfway between a life you lived and a life you could only imagine. You didn’t ask for promises. He didn’t offer any. And somehow, that hurt more than if he had lied.

You leave the door unlocked for him. You always do. It’s past midnight when you hear the soft creak of the floorboards, the almost soundless click as he closes the door behind him. He moves through your apartment like a man trespassing, shoulders tense, jacket slung carelessly over one arm. You don’t say anything. You just wait. He finds you in the living room, half-draped across the couch, a glass of wine forgotten on the table. You’re wearing his favorite thing, nothing but one of his shirts, the sleeves too long, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. When he sees you, something raw flickers across his face. Hunger, sadness, anger. Love, maybe, if he could still believe in something that soft. “Come here,” you say, voice low, lazy with need. He crosses the room in three strides and crushes his mouth to yours, desperate, like he’s been holding his breath all day and you’re the only air he’s allowed. His hands are rough tonight, grabbing your hips, sliding under the thin fabric, finding your bare skin and clutching it like he could anchor himself in you. You let him. You want him to. He pushes you down onto the couch without ceremony, mouth trailing heat along your neck, your collarbone. You hook your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the hard line of him against you. His breath is ragged, like he’s fighting something bigger than lust.

You don’t even make it to the bedroom, just on the couch. “Been thinking about you all day,” he growls, voice low, wrecked. You gasp when he hikes up the shirt you're wearing, his shirt and finds you bare underneath, just like he likes. His fingers slide between your thighs without hesitation, stroking you with a practiced touch that has you arching into him, shameless. “Fuck,” he mutters against your throat. “So wet for me already.” You pull at his belt, frantic, needing him closer, deeper, inside. He curses again when you free him, the desperate thud of his jeans hitting the floor lost in the haze of your need. He lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his hips, your back slamming softly against the couch. He doesn’t wait. He thrusts into you in one rough, perfect stroke, burying himself to the hilt. You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, his name spilling from your lips like a broken hymn. “God, you feel so good,” he rasps, slamming into you again, harder. Each thrust is brutal, relentless. He fucks you like he’s punishing himself, like he’s trying to chase away every lie he lives outside these walls. Your moans are shameless, raw, echoing off the walls, mixing with the filthy sound of skin against skin. You tighten around him, clenching hard, and he shudders, biting down on your shoulder to keep from roaring your name into the silence. "You’re mine," he growls, voice shaking. "Only mine." You don't answer with words, you roll your hips, meet every thrust, take everything he gives you and beg for more. His hands grip your ass, his teeth scrape your neck, and when you come, it rips through you like fire, your body clenching and spasming around him. He follows a second later, thrusting deep, grinding against you as he spills inside you with a low, guttural moan, his whole body trembling with the force of it. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stays there, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting, shaking, completely undone. You know he’ll leave again. He always does. But right now, right now, he's yours. And you are his.

He doesn’t move. Usually, after, he’s quick, pulling away with a muttered apology, dressing in the dark, slipping out the door like a sin he can’t bear to commit twice. But tonight, he stays. Still buried inside you, still holding you against the couch, above you, like he can’t let go. You feel the tremor in him first. The way his fingers flex against your hips, the way his breath shakes as he drags his mouth down your neck, slower now, almost tender. His heart slams against your chest, wild, desperate. "Stay," you whisper again, barely a breath, afraid to break whatever spell has wrapped itself around you both. This time, he doesn’t answer with words. He just carries you, still joined, still hardening inside you, to the bedroom, the backs of your thighs cradled in his strong hands. He lays you down like you’re something precious, something he’s scared he’ll lose if he moves too fast. He fucks you again, slower this time, deep and devastating. Every stroke is a promise he can’t say out loud. He kisses you like a starving man, worships every inch of your skin with his mouth, his hands, his cock. You come again, shattering under him, crying out into the night as he chases his own release, grinding into you until he loses himself all over again. After, he doesn’t move. He wraps himself around you, presses his face into the crook of your neck, pulls the blanket over both of you like he's sealing you inside this moment. You stay like that, skin to skin, tangled, your legs hooked over his hip, his arm locked tight around your waist. His breathing slows, finally, evening out against your shoulder. For the first time, he falls asleep with you. No sneaking out. No guilty glances at the clock. You lie there awake, feeling the weight of him, the heat of him, the impossible softness of this stolen night. You know he belongs to someone else, to another life he’s too afraid to burn down. But tonight, he’s yours. All of him. And you dare to hope, for just a few hours, that he’ll stay.

You wake up before him. It’s still dark outside, that soft, blurred hour before the sun dares to rise. The room smells like sweat and sex and him, and for a moment, you don’t move. You just lie there, breathing him in, pretending this is real. Luigi sleeps heavy beside you, his arm thrown over your waist, his face slack and unguarded in the dim light. He looks younger like this. Softer. Like the boy he must’ve been before duty and expectation turned him into the man you know. You trace his shoulder lightly with your fingers, careful not to wake him. Memorizing him. The faint scars, the muscles tense even in sleep, the way his mouth parts slightly when he exhales. He stirs at your touch, a soft groan rumbling from deep in his chest. His hand tightens on your waist instinctively, pulling you closer. His cock is hard again, pressing against your thigh, and it makes you smile, a slow, aching thing. “Morning,” you whisper against his temple. He blinks awake, confusion clouding his features for a moment before his gaze sharpens, finds yours. For a heartbeat, he just looks at you, something raw and dangerous flickering in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. He just kisses you. It’s different than the night before. Not rough. Not rushed. It’s slow. Hungry. A kiss that tastes like regret and longing and the terrible, beautiful mistake you both keep choosing. He rolls you beneath him without a word, fits himself between your thighs, and slides into you with a low, broken moan. No games now. No lies. Just skin and need and the unbearable sweetness of this impossible morning. He fucks you slowly, again, savoring every thrust, every gasp you give him. His forehead rests against yours, his hand cradling your face like you’re something fragile, precious. You clutch at him, nails digging into his back, hips rising to meet him, desperate to hold him inside you, to keep him here a little longer. When he comes, it’s with your name on his lips, quiet, wrecked, almost reverent. And when you come, it feels like falling, like breaking open, like belonging. After, he stays inside you, his body heavy and warm, his breath hot against your skin. Neither of you speaks. You don’t dare. Because you both know it can’t last. The sun is starting to rise, painting the room in soft gold. You feel the shift in him before he even moves, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his hand tightens once around your waist before loosening. 

You watch him from the bed, the sheet barely covering your body, as he picks up his phone just before slipping out the door. Her name flashes on the screen.

Wife

He hesitates, only for a second, then answers with a voice so calm, so practiced it makes your chest ache. “Yeah, sorry... worked late. Car trouble. Tires blew out. I’m fine. Stayed at a hotel near the office. I’m coming home now.” His lies fall from his mouth as easily as breathing. He catches your eye while he says it, and for a split second, you see it, the guilt, the war inside him. But he doesn’t stop. He never does. He ends the call, slips his phone into his pocket, and leaves without looking back. Leaving you with the truth he can never say out loud. He kisses you one last time. Slow. Lingering. Almost like goodbye. And then he pulls out, dresses in silence, and slips away before the light can catch him. Leaving you alone in the bed that still smells like him. Like love, if you were cruel enough to call it that.

And he does come back. Not right away. Not every night. But enough. Enough to make you forget, sometimes, that he belongs to someone else. Enough to make the lie feel almost real when he slips into your bed in the dark, touches you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive. It becomes a pattern. A rhythm. He fucks you like he needs you. Sleeps tangled in your sheets. Wakes before dawn with regret on his tongue. Over and over, until the sweetness turns heavy. Until the moments blur together, and even the way he says your name starts to sound like an apology he’s too much of a coward to make. And still, you let him in. Every time. Sometimes, late at night, when he falls asleep with his arm draped heavy over your waist, you lie awake and stare at the ceiling. And you feel it, shame, like a film on your skin that no amount of hot showers can rinse off. You never meant to be the other woman. You’re not proud of it. You hate the lies, the hiding, the half-goodbyes. The way he texts you “I can’t tonight” like an apology that never quite lands. The way he leaves smelling like you, but goes home to a woman who waits in silence, hoping one day he’ll love her the way she was promised. You didn’t steal him. That’s what you tell yourself. He came willingly. But still. You think about her sometimes. The wife. Not with jealousy, but with something softer. Sadder. She didn’t ask for this. She did everything right. She was the good girl. The kind of woman families want on their Christmas cards. And for what? A cold bed. A husband who leaves his heart somewhere else. You wonder if she knows. You think she does. Women always know, even when they pretend not to. Maybe she’s just too tired to fight. Or maybe, deep down, she thinks she deserves it. Because she couldn’t give him what he wanted, a living child. A warm touch. Desire. You don’t hate her. You can’t. But sometimes, when he kisses you with that desperate hunger, you feel like a villain in someone else’s story. Like you’re standing on the bones of someone else’s dreams. And still, you let him come back. Because when he’s with you, he’s not a husband. He’s not a grieving father. He’s just a man. And you, you’re the only place he remembers how to be alive.

He did try, once. To build something with her. A child. He doesn’t talk about it often, and when he does, it’s like peeling back a wound that never scabbed over. You have to be careful with your questions, gentle with your hands when they tremble against your back at 3 a.m. They tried for years, he says. Quiet appointments, silent prayers. Sex like obligation. Nothing. And then, finally, she got pregnant. He says she glowed, for a moment. He almost believed they could be happy. But the baby didn’t make it. Died during childbirth. A boy. You imagine her face when they told her. Frozen. Too composed. A performance of grief for a family that doesn’t allow messy emotions. And him, Luigi, breaking apart silently in a hallway somewhere, no one to hold him. Not even her. They never tried again. He says something in her broke that day. Maybe something in him did too. Now she clings harder to the idea of perfection. She wears her pain like pearls, delicate and heavy. A good wife. A grieving mother. A martyr for a child that never came home. And he, he sleeps next to a ghost. But with you, he breathes. He fucks like he’s drowning. He tells you things he’s never said out loud. That sometimes, when he looks at her, he doesn’t see his wife. He sees his mother’s idea of who his wife should be. He says he can’t touch her without feeling watched. But you? You, he touches like he’s trying to live.

Later, when the heat between you fades into a slower, softer kind of ache, Luigi doesn’t pull away. He lies there, his body heavy against yours, one arm slung low around your hips like he’s still afraid you might slip away. His face is buried in your neck. His breath is slow, steady, but you feel the tension still coiled inside him, the kind that no orgasm can undo. You run your fingers through his hair, soft and absent-minded, waiting for him to find his words. You don’t push. You’ve learned he only speaks when the silence is thick enough to drown in. Finally, his voice comes, rough and low, almost ashamed. “I never loved it," he says, "being with her.” You stay very still, letting him say it. "Not even at the beginning," he breathes. "Especially when we were trying... for the baby." He presses his forehead harder into your skin, like he wants to disappear inside you. "It felt... mechanical. Like it wasn't about us. It was about what we were supposed to create. About proving something. To my parents. To hers. To the world." He exhales sharply, bitterly. "Every time I touched her, it felt like I was touching someone else's expectations. Not a woman. Not..." He lifts his head, eyes finding yours in the dim light. "Not like this." Your heart twists painfully. You cup his cheek without thinking, thumbing the rough stubble there, feeling how tightly he holds himself together even now. “She never asked for that either," he says quietly. "She just... became what they wanted. And I became someone who couldn't look at her without seeing everything I failed to be.” You stroke his face, silent. "I hated myself for it," he murmurs. "For not wanting her. For lying. For pretending." "And now?" you whisper. He kisses your palm, his voice breaking into something softer, more desperate. "Now... you're the only thing that feels real." He shifts, rolling partly on top of you again, his body so familiar and so heavy with need, not just for sex, but for closeness. For salvation. He kisses you then, slow and deep. Not to escape. Not to punish himself. But because, with you, he’s finally allowed to want.

It happens on a Sunday. He leaves your apartment late, buttoning his shirt with one hand, coffee still warm in the other. He kisses you hard, like always, like he’s afraid the world will take you from him the moment he walks out the door. You let him go, even though something feels different. Off. Like the calm before a thunderstorm. You don’t expect her to show up. Not in the hallway. Not at your door. Not in jeans and a beige trench coat with hands that don’t tremble as she rings your bell. You don’t even recognize her at first, she looks too real. Not the paper-doll version you imagined, not the picture of wifehood frozen in grief. Her eyes are sharper than you expect. And when you open the door, barefoot and confused, she just… looks at you. “You’re her,” she says. You don’t lie. You don’t bother pretending. “Yes,” you say. “I am.” She nods, once, like it confirms something she already knew. Maybe she's known for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe the baby’s death was only the beginning of the silence between them, and she’s been drowning ever since. “I don’t want him back,” she says finally. “I want to see what he threw it all away for.” You should be angry. You should tell her to leave, that this is your space. But instead, you just stand there, the shame rising in your throat like bile. She looks at you like a scientist. Like a woman who needs to understand. “You’re beautiful,” she says, flatly. “I always thought it would be someone like you.” You try to say something. Anything. But what do you say to the woman whose life you’ve unraveled thread by thread? “I’m sorry,” you whisper. And you mean it. Not because you regret loving him, God, you don’t. But because this woman was promised something too. Love. A future. A child that lived. A husband who stayed. She turns to go, then pauses. “I hope he loves you the way he couldn’t love me,” she says without looking back. “But I wouldn’t bet on it.” And then she’s gone. You shut the door. You press your forehead to the wood. And for the first time, you wonder, not just if he’ll come back. But if he should.

He comes home late. Later than usual. She’s waiting for him in the kitchen, still in her trench coat, she didn't have the courage to remove, hands wrapped around a cold cup of tea she hasn’t touched. He freezes when he sees her. Something in him already knows. “You saw her,” he says. She nods, slowly. “I did.” He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there, framed in the doorway like a man on trial. “She’s beautiful,” she says softly. “And alive. The way I used to be.” His breath catches. “Don’t say that.” “Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?” She sets the cup down. “I became the woman you wanted to show your mother. The one who said yes, who smiled, who gave you the right kind of silence. And you never touched me again.” “It wasn’t like that-” “It was exactly like that, Luigi. You married a doll. One that wouldn’t embarrass you. One that wouldn't scare you. You wanted children, but you didn’t want a wife you had to feel.” He looks at her then. Really looks. And for the first time in years, he sees her. Not as a symbol. Not as a duty. But as a woman who’s been swallowing her grief in silence while he’s been slipping out at night to feel something. “I tried,” he says quietly. “I swear I did. But when the baby died, something in me broke. And you...” His voice cracks. “You looked at me like I was a stranger.” “Because you were,” she says. Her voice is sharp now. “You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You went to work the next day and never said his name again.”

He turns away. “I didn’t know how.” “I didn’t either,” she whispers. “But I still woke up beside you every day, hoping you’d look at me like I wasn’t the one who failed you.” He presses his hands to his face. “I never blamed you.” “You didn’t have to,” she says. “You just disappeared.” There’s a silence between them that feels like the last seconds before a ship sinks. She takes a step forward. Her voice steadies. “I won’t beg you to stay, Luigi. Not after everything. But if you’re going to leave, have the decency to say it to my face.” He looks up. His eyes are red, jaw tight. And he says nothing. Because he can’t. And that’s her answer. She exhales. Not in pain. In clarity. “I loved you,” she says. “Even when you didn’t love yourself. And I deserved better than this.” She walks past him, calm and sure. Stops just before the hallway. “Tell your family I send my regards,” she says over her shoulder. “I played the role they wrote for me. I just won’t die in it.” And then she disappears down the hall, leaving him alone in the house he once thought would save him. She doesn’t cry that night. Not even when she closes the bedroom door and sits on the edge of the bed where she once lay still and perfect, hoping he might reach for her. She feels hollow, yes, but it’s not the emptiness of loss. It’s the space that comes before something new begins. For the first time in years, she sleeps without waiting for the sound of keys in the door.

The next morning, she makes herself coffee, not his. She sits by the window and lets the sun touch her face. It’s a small thing. But when you’ve been living in shadows, even the smallest light feels like a revolution. She makes calls. Quiet ones. A lawyer. A friend she hasn’t seen since before the wedding. A therapist, finally. And then, she opens the closet and starts packing. Not in rage. Not in tears. In stillness. In decision. In freedom. She finds the box of baby clothes at the back of the wardrobe. The ones she never had the heart to give away. She presses the fabric to her chest and lets herself grieve him. The child she loved before he ever took a breath. The child she lost alone. And then, she puts the box gently in a suitcase. Not to carry the pain forever, but to give it a place that isn’t her body. She writes Luigi a letter. Not a plea. Not revenge. Just truth.

"You made me invisible. And I let you.
I don’t hate you. I just refuse to disappear again.
Whatever you have with her, I hope it’s real.
But I won’t stand still while you figure yourself out.
I’m not your waiting room anymore.
I’m someone’s beginning. Maybe even my own."

She signs it with her name. Not “your wife.” Not “love.” Just her. She leaves the letter on the table. Picks up her keys. And walks out the door with her head high, into a world that is finally hers. The house is quiet when he wakes. There’s no clinking of porcelain, no soft footsteps from the kitchen, no presence like a ghost of love that once tried to be enough. Just silence. A heavy, complete silence. Then he sees it, the envelope on the table, folded cleanly, his name written in her calm, elegant script. Not Luigi like she used to say in bed. Just Luigi, like a stranger might write it. He reads it standing up. The words hit harder than he expects. Not because they’re cruel, but because they aren’t. They’re honest. Measured. And in that honesty, he sees what he destroyed. By the time he folds the letter back and slides it into his jacket, his hands are shaking. He gets in the car. Drives like he’s running from a fire. But he’s not going home. Not anymore. He’s going to you.

You’re surprised to see him. You weren’t expecting him. Not today. Maybe not ever. He looks wrecked, again. Same as before, but worse. Like something’s finally fallen apart that can’t be fixed. “She’s gone,” he says. You don’t answer. You wait. “She left me a letter.” His voice is hoarse. “She said she won’t wait for me to become someone I’m not.” You nod slowly. “She’s right.” He steps closer. “I chose you.” But the words don’t land like they used to. Not when they come after destruction. Not when they arrive soaked in the ashes of something he let die. You look at him, really look. And for the first time, you wonder if choosing you came too late. “You didn’t choose me,” you say. “You lost her.” His mouth opens. Closes. He looks stunned, like the air’s been knocked out of him. “I wanted to be with you,” he says. “You wanted to escape with me,” you correct. “There’s a difference.” The silence between you isn’t warm anymore. It’s heavy. He reaches for you, and you don’t move. “I’m not a reward for your courage,” you say softly. “I’m a person. I waited for you to see me. Not just when your life burned down.” He drops his hand. “So what now?” he asks. “Do I lose you too?” You look at him for a long time. “I don’t know,” you say honestly. “But you need to be alone, Luigi. For once in your life, you need to sit with what you’ve done and who you are, without someone to catch you.” He doesn’t argue. Maybe he knows it’s true. He nods, barely. Turns away. And this time, you are the one who closes the door.

One month later.

You don’t think about him every day anymore. Just sometimes. When the leaves change. When the nights feel a little too quiet. When you catch yourself laughing and wonder if he would have loved the sound. You moved apartments. You cut your hair shorter. You built a life that belongs to no one but you. And then, on an ordinary Tuesday, you throw up your coffee in the sink. At first, you blame stress. A bug. Anything but the obvious. But deep down, something old and secret curls in your stomach. Something you had pushed away. You buy the test half-angry at yourself for even needing it. You stare at the little plastic window, willing it to say no. It doesn’t.

Positive.

You sit on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, and let the truth flood you. You are pregnant. With Luigi’s child. The irony almost makes you laugh. Almost. He is out there somewhere, rebuilding or maybe still lost. You don’t know. You haven’t spoken since the day you closed the door between you. And now here you are, carrying the one thing he once thought would save him. A new life. But this time, it’s yours. Not his family's dream. Not his guilt. Not his shame. Yours. You press your hand to your flat belly, feeling nothing yet. But someday, there will be kicks. Little hiccups. Someday, there will be laughter and first steps and a new beginning. Not a secret. Not a shame. Not a mistake. You don’t know if you’ll tell him. Maybe someday, when you’re stronger. When the story you’re writing no longer has his name written in the margins. For now, you stand up. You wipe your face. And you smile, small, trembling, but real. Life goes on. And this time, it begins with you.

It takes you two more weeks to gather the courage. You don’t tell him over the phone. You won’t let this be something whispered through static or dismissed like an afterthought. He deserves to hear it properly, even if he doesn’t deserve you anymore. You ask him to meet you in a park. Neutral ground. Open sky. Somewhere neither of you can run from the truth. When he sees you, he looks thinner, a little older. There’s a heaviness in his step that wasn’t there before, like the weight of all his choices finally found him. You don’t waste time. You sit down across from him on the bench, heart pounding. “I’m pregnant,” you say. You watch it hit him, slow at first, like he doesn’t quite understand the words. And then it sinks in. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clenching. “Are you sure?” he starts, but the question dies in his mouth. He knows. He doesn’t even need the proof. “It’s yours,” you say. Calm. Certain. “There’s no one else.” He looks at you like he’s drowning. Like he’s been handed a life raft he doesn’t know how to use. For a long time, he says nothing. The world around you goes on, children shouting near the swings, a dog barking in the distance. Life, messy and relentless. Finally, he lifts his head. “Are you… are you keeping it?” he asks, his voice rough.

You meet his eyes. You don't flinch. “Yes. I’m keeping it.” He lets out a breath, like he’s been punched and relieved all at once. You wait. And then, quietly, he says, “I want to be there. If you’ll let me.” It’s not a demand. It’s not a promise he isn’t ready to keep. It’s a request. A fragile one. You look at him, really look. You see the cracks. The regrets. The man who has burned bridges and now stands on the ash asking for forgiveness he hasn’t earned. And you say, “I’m not doing this for you, Luigi. Or because of you. I’m doing it for me. For this life growing inside me. If you want to be part of it, you come honestly. You come whole. Otherwise, stay away.” He nods. Slowly. Maybe for the first time in his life, he understands. “I’ll try,” he whispers. You stand up, brushing invisible dust from your jeans. “Trying isn’t enough anymore,” you say gently. “But maybe… someday, it will be.” You leave him there, sitting on the bench, watching you walk away. And for the first time since all of this began, you feel something bloom inside you. Not fear. Not sadness. Hope.

Eight months later.

You hear about it months later. His ex wife. She met someone, a photographer. Someone who sees her not as a symbol or a duty, but as a woman. Someone who makes her laugh, who captures her in light instead of locking her in silence. They divorced quietly, the way people like them are supposed to. No scandals. No accusations. Just the soft, exhausted end of a marriage that had died long before the papers were signed. And now, she smiles in photographs. Real smiles. The kind you know he never gave her. And somehow, it feels less like a betrayal and more like a mercy.

The hospital room is bathed in early morning light. Soft, pale, almost golden. You’re exhausted. Your body aches in ways you never thought possible. But when you look down at the tiny bundle in your arms, pink and wrinkled and perfect, you don’t feel broken. You feel whole. A little girl. Your daughter. She blinks up at you with dark eyes, her fist curled against your chest like she already knows you are her safe place. Her beginning. You cry. Quietly, this time. Not from sadness. From something bigger. Something sacred. A nurse asks if you want to call someone. Family. Friends. You nod. You had made your decision months ago.

Luigi arrives an hour later.

He looks terrified. His jacket is inside-out, his hair uncombed, like he got the call and ran without thinking. When he steps into the room and sees you holding the baby, he freezes. You watch a thousand emotions cross his face, fear, awe, guilt, hope. You nod once, giving him permission to come closer. He approaches carefully, as if he’s afraid he’ll break both of you just by breathing wrong. You lift your daughter gently toward him. “She’s yours too,” you say softly. His hands shake as he takes her. For a moment, you think he might fall apart. But he doesn’t. He holds her like she’s made of glass and gold at the same time. Like she’s the first good thing he’s ever been trusted with. He looks at you with tears in his eyes. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispers. You smile, tired but sure. “You don’t have to deserve her,” you say. “You just have to show up. Every day. No running. No hiding.” He nods. Swears it. You believe him. Not blindly. Not foolishly. But because you have built a life that doesn’t depend on him anymore and if he wants to be part of it, he’ll have to walk the whole road beside you. Not ahead. Not behind. Beside.

Weeks later.

You see them together sometimes, when you’re resting on the couch, Luigi holding his daughter, talking to her in soft Italian she doesn’t understand yet but listens to anyway, as if she already knows his voice matters. He is gentler now. Slower. Like a man who has been humbled by grace he thought he’d never earn. You are not a family in the traditional sense. Not married. Not defined by old expectations or worn-out dreams. You are something better. A woman who chose herself. A child born from chaos but cradled in love. A man learning, piece by piece, how to be worthy. And in the quiet moments, when your daughter falls asleep against your heart, you realize. You didn't just survive all this. You created something new from it. A life. A future. A beginning.

It doesn’t happen all at once. After your daughter’s birth, Luigi doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t demand more than what you’re willing to give. He shows up. Every visit, every late-night call when the baby’s fever spikes, every early morning when you’re too exhausted to stand, he’s there. He changes diapers without complaining. He learns how to heat bottles. He rocks her to sleep when you’re too tired to open your eyes. He doesn’t try to seduce you back into his life. He earns it. He asks about you, not just the baby.

“How are you sleeping?”
“Are you eating enough?”
“Do you want me to stay, just so you’re not alone?”

Little things. The kind of things no one ever taught him to do when love wasn’t a transaction. You watch him, day after day. Quiet. Steady. Not trying to be a hero, just trying to be a man who shows up for the life he helped create. And slowly, your anger softens. Your guard lowers. One night, a few months after the birth, you find yourself falling asleep on the couch, your daughter curled on Luigi’s chest, his hand protectively cradling her tiny back. You wake up to him watching you, his eyes full of something deep and aching. “I miss you,” he whispers. Not desperate. Not demanding. Just honest. You don’t answer right away. You just reach out, your fingers brushing his. And he understands, he’s not forgiven yet. But he’s being let in. Little by little. Over the next year, you let him into your world again. First as a father. Then as a friend. And finally, when trust rebuilds strong enough as your partner. There’s no big dramatic moment. No flowers. No grand speeches. Just a quiet afternoon, years later, when your daughter is napping in her room, and Luigi leans across the kitchen counter and kisses you, it's soft, careful and certain. And this time, you kiss him back. Not as a stolen secret. Not as a hidden lover. As the man you chose. Because he became the man you and your daughter, deserve.

Three years later.

It’s a warm spring afternoon. You’re walking through the park, the same one where everything once fell apart, and then, somehow, came back together. Your daughter is running ahead, her little sneakers kicking up tiny clouds of dust, her laugh filling the air like music. Luigi walks beside you, hands in his pockets, that quiet smile he saves just for you tugging at the corners of his mouth. You don’t notice at first when he slows down. When he drops a step behind. When he kneels. It’s only when your daughter shrieks with delight, "Mommy, look!", that you turn. And there he is. On one knee. A simple ring between his fingers. No crowd. No pressure. No spectacle. Just him. Just you. "I don’t want you to be my mistake," he says, his voice thick with feeling. "I want you to be my forever. If you still want me." Your heart beats so hard it almost hurts. You blink back tears, happy ones this time. You kneel too, right there on the path, because this isn’t just his proposal. It’s yours too. You take his face in your hands, smiling through your tears. "I wanted you to be mine," you whisper. "You became yours first. That’s how I knew you were ready to be ours." You kiss him, laughter and tears mixing between you, as your daughter runs circles around you shouting, "Say yes! Say yes!" And you do. Over and over and over again. Because this time, it’s not a secret. It’s not a shame. It’s love. Real. Messy. Earned. And it’s yours.

The wedding planning was done very quickly, 3 months. Which is way too fast to plan a wedding, but hey, you've known each other for almost four years, so it's normal for you to quickly organize the ceremony. And both are sure of your choice. You stand in a small sunlit garden, your hand wrapped tightly around Luigi's. Your daughter clings to your leg, her white dress slightly crumpled from running in the grass. There are no rows of chairs, no grand archways, just a handful of people you trust and the quiet hum of spring all around you. Luigi smiles at you, that soft, rare smile he saves only for moments like this and you can feel your heart lift. He looks almost shy in his simple gray suit, his dark curls refusing to stay perfectly combed. You wear a plain dress, nothing extravagant, but in his eyes, you know you are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. The officiant speaks, but the words barely register. You only hear Luigi’s voice, steady and a little rough with emotion, when he repeats his vows. When it’s your turn, you almost laugh and cry at the same time, your voice shaking as you promise what you already know deep in your bones, that you love him, that you will love him even when the world feels heavy. Your daughter tugs at your dress, and you scoop her into your arms. She giggles into your shoulder as Luigi leans in to kiss you, a kiss that feels like coming home. There’s no applause, no music blaring, just the wind in the trees and the tiny, perfect life you’ve built together. Later, you all sit around a long table under the open sky, eating simple food, laughing until the sun begins to set. Luigi lifts your daughter onto his lap, and for a long moment, you watch them, your heart full. This is not the wedding you once dreamed of. It is something better: it is yours.

You leave your daughter with family for a few days, your heart aching and soaring at the same time. It feels strange to be alone together, like slipping into a forgotten dream. You and Luigi drive along the coast, windows down, the salt air catching in your hair. He holds your hand on the gear shift, not saying much, but you can feel the way he watches you when he thinks you’re not looking. You stay in a small inn by the sea, nothing fancy, a room with creaky floors, thin white curtains, and a view of the endless water. The bed is too soft, the walls too thin, and you both laugh when you hear the neighbor’s television through the wall. None of it matters. You have him. He has you. In the mornings, you wake tangled together, the sunlight slipping between the curtains. Luigi kisses your shoulder lazily, his voice a low whisper against your skin. You stay in bed longer than you should, forgetting time. There are no schedules, no demands. Just the warmth of his body against yours and the quiet promise that, somehow, this is real. During the day, you walk along the cliffs, your shoes in your hands, the stones warm beneath your feet. Luigi teases you when you slip, catches you by the waist, and kisses you until you forget why you ever worried about anything. In the evenings, you find small restaurants tucked away on side streets, places with candles and old music playing. He orders for you without asking, remembering the things you love. Sometimes you talk about the future. Sometimes you sit in silence, sharing a bottle of wine, watching the stars scatter over the sea. Every now and then, you catch Luigi looking at you with something so raw, so tender in his expression that you have to look away before you cry. It’s not a grand honeymoon. It’s simple, messy, perfect, just like the life you are learning to build together.

One night, after a day of looking at the landscapes, visiting a museum and finished eating at a restaurant. You barely close the door before Luigi has you against it, his hands rough on your hips, his mouth devouring yours like he’s starved. There’s nothing soft about the way he touches you, it’s frantic, filthy, like he’s waited too long and can’t bear another second without you. He rips your dress over your head, doesn't bother with finesse, just raw need. You hear the tear of fabric and you don’t care, not when his mouth is already on your bare skin, biting down hard enough to leave bruises he’ll kiss later. You claw at his belt, yanking it free, and he groans when your fingers brush over the thick heat straining against his pants. He pushes you down onto the bed, standing over you for a moment, dark eyes drinking you in, wild, possessive. You spread your legs for him without thinking, aching, desperate. His mouth curves into a wicked smile before he drops to his knees and buries his face between your thighs, making you cry out, arch off the bed. He doesn’t let you come easily. He teases, backs off, makes you beg. His tongue works you mercilessly, his fingers sliding inside you, curling just right, until you're shaking, until you’re sobbing his name like a prayer. When he finally thrusts into you, it’s brutal, overwhelming. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. His pace is relentless, unforgiving, driving you higher and higher until you’re unraveling beneath him, screaming as pleasure crashes through you. He follows with a broken, guttural moan, collapsing against you, his body heavy and trembling. But it isn’t over. Not even close. He flips you over, pulls your hips up, slides back inside without giving you a chance to recover. You sob into the sheets, overwhelmed, blissfully wrecked, as he fucks you harder, rougher, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the room. He doesn't stop until you're completely spent, until you’re trembling, boneless, wrecked in the best way. Only then does he pull you against his chest, pressing slow, reverent kisses along your spine, murmuring things in Italian you’re too dazed to understand. Later, when you wake tangled in sweaty sheets, he’s already hard again, already pulling you onto him, whispering how he can’t get enough of you. You don’t even try to resist. You don't want to.

After you take a shower. You don’t make it back to the bed. Luigi catches you by the wrist as you try to walk past him, and the next thing you know, you’re falling into his chest, laughing breathlessly. He kisses you hard, stealing the sound from your throat, and lowers you onto the cool floorboards without breaking contact. The wood is rough against your back, but you don't care. Not when Luigi’s hands are sliding up your thighs, pushing the oversized shirt up over your hips. Not when he’s muttering filthy things against your mouth in that low, wrecked voice that makes your whole body ache. He stretches out over you, pinning you down completely, one hand catching both your wrists above your head. His weight, his heat, his scent, it's overwhelming. You can feel how hard he is, pressing against you through his pajama pants, and you arch your hips into him shamelessly, desperate for more. He grins against your skin, wicked and slow, and pulls away just enough to yank his pants down, freeing himself. You gasp when he slides the thick head of his cock along your slick folds, teasing you until you're whimpering, trying to grind against him. "So needy," he murmurs, voice rough, almost affectionate, before driving into you with one sharp thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. You cry out, your body arching off the floor as he fills you, stretches you, owns you. He doesn't give you time to adjust, he sets a brutal rhythm from the start, fucking you deep and hard, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the empty room. Your back scrapes against the floor, your hands scrabble uselessly against his grip, but Luigi doesn't let up. He pounds into you like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out, his mouth at your ear, whispering dirty promises in Italian you can barely understand but feel all the way down to your toes. You come with a shuddering cry, stars exploding behind your eyes, and he keeps moving, chasing his own pleasure until he’s spilling inside you with a deep, broken groan. But he doesn’t stop. He pulls out only long enough to flip you onto your stomach, dragging your hips up, and slides back in with a filthy sound that makes your whole body clench. You scream into your arm as he fucks you rougher this time, meaner, using you like you’re his favorite sin.

The hours blur.

He takes you again and again, against the couch, on your knees in front of the fireplace, sprawled half-dressed on the kitchen counter, until you’re trembling, oversensitive, begging for mercy he doesn’t give. When the first light of dawn slips through the windows, you’re curled up on the floor, your body bruised and boneless, your skin slick with sweat and his marks all over you. Luigi presses lazy kisses along your shoulder, his arms tight around you, murmuring, "My wife," like a secret he can’t believe is real. You fall asleep tangled together right there on the floor, utterly wrecked, utterly his.

Your honeymoon is over, it's the time to go to your cocoon together. The plane hums around you, dim lights casting everything in a soft, sleepy glow. Luigi sits beside you, his thigh pressed against yours, his hand resting casually on your knee, too casual, you know, because his fingers keep tracing slow, maddening circles against your bare skin under the thin blanket.You shift in your seat, trying to look unbothered, but the look he gives you, lazy, wicked, knowing, makes your heart race. You remember the way he touched you just hours ago, the way he wrecked you on the floor of the Airbnb, and your body aches in the best way. Luigi leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "You look like you need me again," he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. Your cheeks burn, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you let your legs fall slightly open under the blanket, inviting him. His fingers creep higher, brushing the inside of your thigh, so slow it’s torture. You bite your lip to hold in a sound when he finds how wet you already are, stroking you with maddening, feather-light touches that make your whole body tense with need. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying not to squirm, trying not to make a scene, but he knows exactly what he’s doing. "Later," he promises against your skin, his voice thick with hunger."First thing when we get home." You barely survive the flight.

The moment you step through the gates, all the heat and tension fades into something softer, deeper. You spot her immediately, your daughter with your family, in her little blue dress, running toward you with arms outstretched, her face lighting up with pure joy. You drop your bags without thinking and scoop her up into your arms. She squeals with laughter, her tiny hands tangling in your hair, pressing sloppy kisses to your cheeks. Luigi leans in, pressing his forehead against both of yours, his arms wrapping around you both tightly, grounding you, completing you. "Missed you, piccola," he whispers, kissing the top of her head, his voice thick with emotion. She babbles about everything she’s done while you were away, the games, the drawings, the stories and you and Luigi listen, hanging on every word like it’s the most important thing in the world. And somehow, it is. As you walk to the car, Luigi’s hand brushes yours, then grips it tight. Your daughter holds onto his other hand, swinging between you both, her laughter filling the warm afternoon air. You glance at Luigi and he looks back at you, his eyes soft and burning all at once.No words are needed.You have each other. You have her. You have everything. And tonight, when she’s tucked safely into her bed, you know Luigi will make good on his promise, slow, deep, all night long, loving you the way only he knows how.

Two weeks pass after your return from your honeymoon and peace slowly returns after all these events. You wake up to the soft light of morning spilling across the sheets. Luigi is still asleep beside you, one arm thrown lazily over your waist, his face peaceful in a way you rarely see. You watch him for a moment, your heart full, before slipping out of bed quietly. In the bathroom, the test lies on the counter where you left it. Positive. You stare at it again, as if it might change, but it doesn’t. A tiny, shaky laugh escapes your lips. You press a hand to your stomach, still flat and unchanged, but already carrying a new secret. When you step back into the bedroom, Luigi stirs. His eyes blink open, hazy and slow, and he smiles when he sees you. "Come back to bed," he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. You sit on the edge of the mattress instead, your heart pounding. For a second you don't know how to say it, how to fit something so big into such a small, quiet moment. But then you just breathe, and you tell him. "I'm pregnant," you say softly. He blinks, the words sinking in. He props himself up on one elbow, staring at you like he's trying to make sure he's awake and not dreaming. You smile, nervous, radiant and Luigi lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh. "Are you serious?" he whispers. You nod. He reaches for you, pulling you into his arms, holding you like he’s afraid you might vanish. You feel his hand slip between you, resting over your stomach, tentative and full of wonder. "You and me," he says against your hair. "And them." The morning stretches out around you, golden and endless, as the three of you, you, Luigi, and the tiny new life growing inside you, begin something all over again.

After this announcement, this morning, it's the kind of morning that smells like fresh coffee, warm pancakes, and sunlight through the kitchen windows. You sit at the kitchen table, barefoot, still wearing Luigi’s oversized shirt from the night before. Your daughter is perched on a chair next to you, swinging her little legs and carefully pouring way too much syrup on her pancakes. Luigi stands at the stove, humming under his breath, flipping the last pancake with a flair that makes your daughter giggle and clap like he’s a magician. "Best chef ever!" she shouts. He bows dramatically, placing the plate in front of her like a king serving a queen. "And the most beautiful queen deserves the best breakfast," he says, winking at her and at you. You catch his eyes across the room. Still that same look. Like he can't quite believe he gets to wake up to this life. He crosses the kitchen, leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead. Soft. Unhurried. Certain. "You look beautiful," he murmurs. "Even with syrup in your hair." You laugh, swatting at him. He laughs too, really laughs, the sound filling the small kitchen, bright and whole. And for a moment, you just sit there and breathe it in: This life you built. This family you chose. This love that chose you back. No secrets. No hiding. Just sunlight, laughter, and love so real it feels like it lives in your very skin. You glance at your daughter, messy and grinning, then back at Luigi, who is pretending to duel a pancake with a spatula and think about to your future baby who will arrive at your lovely home. You smile. You’re home. Finally and forever.

Chapter Text

One month after the discovery by his wife, or rather ex-wife now. You don’t think about him every day anymore. Just sometimes. When the leaves change. When the nights feel a little too quiet. When you catch yourself laughing and wonder if he would have loved the sound. You moved apartments. You cut your hair shorter. You built a life that belongs to no one but you. And then, on an ordinary Tuesday, you throw up your coffee in the sink. At first, you blame stress. A bug. Anything but the obvious. But deep down, something old and secret curls in your stomach. Something you had pushed away. You buy the test half-angry at yourself for even needing it. You stare at the little plastic window, willing it to say no. It doesn’t.

Positive.

You sit on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, and let the truth flood you. You are pregnant. With Luigi’s child. The irony almost makes you laugh. Almost. He is out there somewhere, rebuilding or maybe still lost. You don’t know. You haven’t spoken since the day you closed the door between you. And now here you are, carrying the one thing he once thought would save him. A new life. But this time, it’s yours. Not his family's dream. Not his guilt. Not his shame. Yours. You press your hand to your flat belly, feeling nothing yet. But someday, there will be kicks. Little hiccups. Someday, there will be laughter and first steps and a new beginning. Not a secret. Not a shame. Not a mistake. You don’t know if you’ll tell him. Maybe someday, when you’re stronger. When the story you’re writing no longer has his name written in the margins. For now, you stand up. You wipe your face. And you smile, small, trembling, but real. Life goes on. And this time, it begins with you.

It takes you two more weeks to gather the courage. You don’t tell him over the phone. You won’t let this be something whispered through static or dismissed like an afterthought. He deserves to hear it properly, even if he doesn’t deserve you anymore. You ask him to meet you in a park. Neutral ground. Open sky. Somewhere neither of you can run from the truth. When he sees you, he looks thinner, a little older. There’s a heaviness in his step that wasn’t there before, like the weight of all his choices finally found him. You don’t waste time. You sit down across from him on the bench, heart pounding. “I’m pregnant,” you say. You watch it hit him, slow at first, like he doesn’t quite understand the words. And then it sinks in. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clenching. “Are you sure?” he starts, but the question dies in his mouth. He knows. He doesn’t even need the proof. “It’s yours,” you say. Calm. Certain. “There’s no one else.” He looks at you like he’s drowning. Like he’s been handed a life raft he doesn’t know how to use. For a long time, he says nothing. The world around you goes on, children shouting near the swings, a dog barking in the distance. Life, messy and relentless. Finally, he lifts his head. “Are you… are you keeping it?” he asks, his voice rough.

You meet his eyes. You don't flinch. “Yes. I’m keeping it.” He lets out a breath, like he’s been punched and relieved all at once. You wait. And then, quietly, he says, “I want to be there. If you’ll let me.” It’s not a demand. It’s not a promise he isn’t ready to keep. It’s a request. A fragile one. You look at him, really look. You see the cracks. The regrets. The man who has burned bridges and now stands on the ash asking for forgiveness he hasn’t earned. And you say, “I’m not doing this for you, Luigi. Or because of you. I’m doing it for me. For this life growing inside me. If you want to be part of it, you come honestly. You come whole. Otherwise, stay away.” He nods. Slowly. Maybe for the first time in his life, he understands. “I’ll try,” he whispers. You stand up, brushing invisible dust from your jeans. “Trying isn’t enough anymore,” you say gently. “But maybe… someday, it will be.” You leave him there, sitting on the bench, watching you walk away. And for the first time since all of this began, you feel something bloom inside you. Not fear. Not sadness. Hope.

Luigi calls you three days later. Not with urgency. Not with desperation. Just a quiet, even voice on the other end of the line that says, “Can we talk?” You don’t say yes. But you don’t hang up either. You meet him in the same café where it all began. Neutral ground, chipped tables, bad coffee. Full circle. He’s already there when you arrive, sitting with a cup in front of him that he hasn’t touched. When he sees you, he stands, like that might make this more formal. More respectful. It doesn’t. You sit down without a word. You wait. You’ve done enough chasing. Enough waiting. “I’ve been thinking,” he starts. You say nothing. You wait for the version of the story he’s going to offer now. The man he’s rewritten himself into since you left him standing on that park bench. “I want to try,” he says. “Not just for the baby. For us. I want to build something real. If you’ll let me.” You study his face. The sincerity is there. So is the sorrow. And maybe, for the first time, something like courage. But courage that comes too late still counts as absence. “You can’t come back,” you say softly. He flinches. “I thought you wanted-” “I did,” you interrupt. “God, I did. I wanted you so badly I let myself become someone I didn’t recognize. I twisted myself into half a woman, always waiting.

Always hoping. I set myself on fire just to keep you warm.” He lowers his eyes. You continue. Calm. Steady. “But I’m not her anymore. I’m not the girl who opens the door at midnight and pretends it’s enough. I’m going to be a mother. And I can’t build a life on ruins. Not for me. Not for this child.” He nods, slowly, as if every word cuts him open in a way he knows he deserves. “I still love you,” he says quietly. “That hasn’t changed.” You smile. Sad. Small. True. “I believe you,” you say. “But sometimes, love isn’t the point. Sometimes, love comes dressed in too much pain to wear every day.” He says your name like a prayer. But you don’t let it land. “I’ll let you be part of the baby’s life,” you say. “If you show up. Not when it’s easy. Not when you’re lonely. But when it matters.” He leans forward, eyes shining. “And us?” “There is no us,” you say gently. “There was. But that story ended. It had to.” You stand up. He doesn’t follow. Maybe because this time, he understands what it means when you leave. Outside, the sky is overcast. Soft, like the ache you’ll always carry for what almost was. But your hands are steady. Your breath is clear. And for the first time in months, your heart beats only for the life inside you. Not for a man. Not for a fantasy. Just for the future you’re building, on your terms.

He tries again. He writes to you. Calls you. Sometimes he waits downstairs, hands in his pockets, eyes vacant like a man who no longer knows where to go now that the place he once called refuge is closed to him. You don’t go down. He leaves messages. Not every day, but enough for you to know he still hopes. Simple ones, like he's trying to prove he’s become an ordinary man now, capable of loving in the daylight. He talks about the baby. Asks if you slept well. Says he found a good crib, that he’s been reading about second-trimester ultrasounds. He speaks like there’s still a we. As if that word hadn’t already turned to ash. And you respond. But only to what matters. Only about the baby. You send him the dates of your medical appointments. You tell him the time, the place. You sign your name, without affection, without anger. Just the clean distance it takes not to lose yourself again. At the first appointment, he arrives early. He’s shaved. He wears a pressed shirt, sleeves rolled, hair pushed back like he wants to look like a man who has changed. For a moment, you still feel something, an echo, a ghost of what he made you feel. But it fades. Quickly. He stands when you walk into the waiting room. His eyes search your face. You nod at him. Nothing more.

During the ultrasound, he stares at the screen like he’s witnessing both a miracle and a punishment. When the tiny heartbeat fills the room, fast, strong, he exhales, shaky. You turn your head slightly. Not to look at him. To stop yourself from crying. Afterward, he tries. He suggests dinner. “Just to talk,” he says. He offers to help put the crib together. He speaks with a gentleness he never had the courage to give you when you were waiting for him in the dark. You look at him for a long time. Then say: “You can come to the doctor’s visits. You can ask questions. But my door, Luigi… it’s closed. We’re done. And I need you to respect that.” His mouth opens. He thinks better of it. Nods. He wants to argue, you can feel it, but he knows. He sees in your eyes this isn’t cruelty. It’s a boundary. You’re not trying to punish him. You’re trying to live. And now, living means doing it without him.

It’s raining when your water breaks. Not dramatic, not movie-like. Just a sudden cramp, a gasp, and a spreading warmth that tells you everything is about to change. You grab your hospital bag. Call the car. And then, almost against your will, you call him. He answers on the first ring. You hear the panic flood his voice. “I’ll be there,” he says. “Just hold on. Please.” You don’t ask him to. You don’t stop him either. By the time you’re in the delivery room, everything is blinding and sharp. Nurses come in and out. Machines beep steadily. Your body feels foreign, split between pain and purpose. And then he’s there, Luigi. Soaked from the rain, eyes wide, hands shaking. You don’t say anything. Just reach for his hand. And he takes it. He stays with you through the hours that follow. He rubs your back. He whispers, “You’re doing so good.” He cries when you scream, cries harder when you don’t. He holds your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. And when the baby comes, a girl, small and furious and perfect, you both fall silent. He sees her first.

The nurse lays her on your chest, and you’re not thinking about anything except this tiny, warm body trembling with new life. Then you look at him. He’s already looking at you. Tears stream down his face, but he doesn’t speak. He just reaches out, hesitates, then places one hand gently on your daughter’s back. Your daughter. Not his salvation. Not your proof. Just a child. Just hers. You stay in the hospital two days. He visits every hour he can. Brings coffee. Diapers. Sits in the chair by the window and holds her while you sleep. He never tries to push, never asks to stay overnight. There’s something new in him. Something quieter. The morning you’re discharged, he walks you both to the car. Carries the bag, adjusts the seatbelt. You buckle her into the car seat with trembling fingers. He watches, still as stone. Before you close the door, he clears his throat. “I want to be here,” he says. “Not just for her. For everything. For the late nights. The milestones. The quiet parts, too.” You look at him. You believe he means it. But you also know better now. “I’m not stopping you,” you say. “But I’m not waiting, either.” He nods. You don’t kiss him goodbye. You drive home. Alone, but not lonely. Later, when you’re rocking her to sleep, the light low and your chest aching with something close to peace, you realize this is what love should feel like, safe. Steady. Free. Luigi will be part of her life. That much is clear. But he’s no longer the center of yours. And that is the most beautiful ending you could’ve written for yourself.

Three years later.

It’s late spring, and your daughter is running ahead of you in the park, chasing birds like they’re secrets only she can catch. She has his curls. Your eyes. Her own fire. She laughs like she was never born of heartbreak. Luigi arrives a few minutes late, like always. But he runs to make up for it, breathless and apologetic, a bouquet of wildflowers in one hand, a tiny pink backpack in the other. She sees him and screams, “Papa!” before barreling into his arms. It still catches you sometimes, that word. He lifts her like it’s the first time, every time. Spins her once. Kisses her cheek. You watch from the bench, smiling despite yourself. When he walks over, she’s already busy pulling out the picture she drew for him in school. “It’s us,” she says proudly. “You, me, and Mama. But Mama’s far away because she says we’re a team, but she needs her own time too.” He laughs softly, eyes flicking to you. You raise an eyebrow. She listens more than she lets on. He sits beside you on the bench, a careful distance between your knees. Not too close. Not anymore. “She’s growing fast,” he says. “She always has,” you answer. A silence settles, comfortable, not heavy. He watches her, something tender and unspoken in his gaze. You wonder if he ever thinks about what you could’ve been, had things gone differently. But neither of you says it. You don’t need to.

“I wanted to thank you,” he says quietly. You turn to him. “For what?” “For letting me be here. For letting me learn how not to mess it up twice.” You smile. A real one. Not because it fixes anything, but because you’ve both come too far for bitterness. “You’re doing alright,” you say. You mean it. He looks down, then back at her, chasing shadows across the grass. “She’s the best thing I’ve ever done.” You don’t say me too, but you think it. You feel it. After a while, she runs back to you, cheeks flushed, hands full of daisies. “One for you,” she says, handing you a crumpled flower. “And one for Papa.” He takes it like it’s gold. She climbs into your lap, warm and wiggly, talking about everything and nothing all at once. Luigi watches her with quiet reverence, then looks at you. Then adds, more hesitantly, “Sometimes I still wonder... if we ever had a real chance.” You meet his eyes. There’s no anger in you. No longing. Just the truth. “We loved each other,” you say. “I don’t doubt that. But what we had... it started wrong. I was your mistress, Luigi. That was always the shadow over us. We built something in the dark, and it couldn't survive the light.” He exhales, slowly. “I never wanted it to be like that.” “I know,” you say. “But wanting isn’t enough. And love... love doesn’t erase the damage. Some things come too tangled to ever be whole.” He nods, and this time, he doesn’t argue. Maybe for the first time, he accepts it. You and Luigi sit in silence, watching your daughter tugs petals from the flower and name each one after something she loves. You were lovers once. You even tried to be something like soulmates. But some beginnings are too bruised to grow into futures. And that’s okay. What remains is honest. And enough. Not a family. Not quite. But three people under a tree. And in that soft, quiet way that life gives when it finally forgives itself, it’s peace.