Morning came like an apology. The storm had passed, leaving the air clear and salt-sweet, the sky pale as porcelain outside the small window. For once, Adrian woke not to silence that felt like punishment, but to warmth pressed against him: Elara, curled in the crook of his arm, her hair a golden mess across his chest.
Her breathing was slow, steady, a soft counterpoint to the faint hiss of Gavin's monitor. His heart thundered anyway, not with panic, but with the simple awe that she was still here—that she hadn't vanished in the night like a dream burned away by morning.
He brushed his lips across her hair. She stirred, murmuring something incoherent, then tucked herself closer, her leg draped across his hip. The movement pressed their bare skin together, and Adrian's breath caught. He remembered every inch of last night—the way she had called his name, the way she had broken beneath his touch, the way they had remade each other in the wreckage.
For a moment he just held her, his chest aching with something that was half relief, half worship. Then the monitor crackled: a soft whimper, then the restless fuss of an infant deciding dawn had been wasted long enough.
Adrian slid out of bed carefully, tucking the blanket back around Elara. She didn't stir this time, exhaustion anchoring her. He paused, watching her for one more heartbeat, then padded into the nursery.
Gavin blinked up at him, his cheeks flushed from sleep, his tiny mouth twitching like he was practicing a frown. Adrian smiled helplessly.
"Morning, little king," he murmured, scooping him up with clumsy reverence. Gavin squirmed, then settled against his chest, hiccupping once before sighing. Adrian swayed, rocking without thought, instinct already etched into his muscles.
"Your mama's still asleep," he whispered. "I think we... uh, wore her out." His mouth twisted into a grin at his own words, though his chest tightened with something deeper. He kissed Gavin's forehead, inhaling the baby's powdery scent. "We're gonna take care of her, okay? Both of us."
The baby yawned, unimpressed by promises, and tried to chew on Adrian's collarbone. Adrian laughed quietly, adjusting his hold. For the first time in months, he felt... whole.
—
Elara woke to the faint clink of mugs and the smell of tea. She blinked against the light filtering through thin curtains, her body aching in ways both tender and sore, her heart oddly light. For a second, panic licked at her—memories of being alone, of waking to absence—but then she heard it: Adrian's low murmur, the steady rhythm of his voice.
She slipped into her robe and padded to the kitchen.
There he was, impossibly large in the small space, hair tousled, shirt half-buttoned wrong. Gavin sat in his arm, gurgling like he was telling a grand story, while Adrian clumsily poured tea with his free hand. The sight nearly undid her.
"You look ridiculous," she said softly, leaning on the doorway.
He turned, caught. A flush climbed his neck. "Domestic isn't my strong suit," he admitted, but his grin was sheepish, boyish. "But he approves."
Elara crossed the room, reaching out to smooth Gavin's hair. "He approves because you're warm. Not because you can pour tea."
"Ruthless," Adrian muttered, but his eyes were soft as he handed Gavin over. Their fingers brushed, and the spark of last night flickered alive between them again, gentler but no less potent.
She cradled Gavin, rocking lightly. "Did you change him?"
"Yes."
"Correctly?"
"I think so."
"Think?" She arched an eyebrow.
Adrian raised his hands, defensive. "He's not leaking, is he? That's a win."
She laughed—an unguarded sound that startled even her. Gavin cooed, delighted, as if he knew laughter was a currency in this house and he wanted in.
—
Breakfast was uneven bread, slightly over-toasted, and tea poured too strong. They ate together at the little table, Elara with Gavin in her lap, Adrian watching them like he couldn't stop.
"You keep staring," she teased between sips.
"You keep existing," he countered. "I can't stop."
Her cheeks warmed. She hid her smile against her mug, but her heart swelled.
They ate in comfortable silence for a while. Outside, gulls called over the surf, neighbors' voices drifted faintly through open windows. The world felt ordinary. The world felt extraordinary.
Adrian finally set his cup down, fingers tapping against the chipped ceramic. "I need to say this again. What I said last night—about cages, about pride, about fear—I meant it. And I meant what came after more." His gaze caught hers, steady despite the rawness in it. "I want a home with you. With him. No cages. No conditions. Just us."
Elara studied him, searching for cracks, for hesitation. She found none. His words weren't polished. They were battered, scarred, but real.
"Then build it with me," she said quietly.
He exhaled, almost a laugh, almost a sob. "Every day," he promised.
—
Later, when Gavin slept again, they found themselves on the couch, side by side. Adrian's hand brushed over hers, tentative but certain. She let their fingers tangle.
"You know," she murmured, "I expected the morning to feel heavier. Awkward. But it doesn't."
"Because we burned all the awkward out last night," Adrian said, lips curving.
Her elbow nudged him. "Arrogant."
"Honest." He leaned closer, his breath brushing her cheek. "Do you regret it?"
Her head turned, eyes meeting his. "No. Not one second."
His lips found hers then—not hungry like last night, but slow, reverent, sealing the truth between them.
When they parted, she whispered, "You're different."
"I had to be," he said simply. "You deserved better. Our son deserved better. I'm still learning, but I'll keep learning until I get it right."
Her eyes softened. She rested her head against his shoulder. "That's all I ask."
—
Evening brought neighbors knocking—curious voices, offers of fish, questions about "the man in Elara's house." She smiled, deflected, shielded. Adrian stayed quiet, a shadow at her side, until the door closed and they were alone again.
"You're really going to deal with island gossip?" he asked wryly.
"I already have." Her smile was tired but amused. "They'll think you're either a ghost, a storm, or a bad decision. But they'll get used to you."
"Which am I to you?"
Her hand reached for his, fingers lacing tight. "Not a ghost. Not a storm. Maybe a bad decision. But my decision."
He kissed her knuckles, his voice low. "The only decision I want to be."
—
That night, after Gavin was fed and asleep, Elara lingered at the nursery door, watching Adrian settle the blanket around their son. His large hands were clumsy but careful, his touch reverent.
She whispered, "You're good with him."
He turned, startled. "I'm trying."
"You're more than trying," she said. "You're showing up. That's what matters."
He swallowed, throat working. Then he crossed the room, cupping her face gently, his thumb brushing her cheek. "I'll never stop showing up. Not for you. Not for him."
She leaned into his touch, eyes stinging with something dangerously close to tears. "Then we'll be okay."
"Better than okay," he murmured, kissing her softly. "We'll be us."
—
When they finally crawled into bed, the storm was long gone, the night quiet except for the sea's steady hush. Adrian gathered her close, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces.
"You think he'll forgive me?" he whispered into her hair.
"Gavin?"
"Yes."
She smiled faintly, pressing a kiss to his chest. "He already has. Babies don't keep ledgers. They just want warmth, food, love. You give him that, he's yours."
"And you?" His voice was smaller.
Her eyes closed, but not with anger, not with bitterness—because those had never lived in her. "I was never angry, Adrian," she whispered. "Not like that. Sad, yes. Disappointed, yes. But never so angry that it needed forgiveness. You gave me a life I never thought I'd have—you fed me, taught me, fixed what I didn't know was broken. You gave me everything I wanted to give back. Forgiveness was never part of it."
Her gaze lifted, steady, calm. "I can't forgive you because there's nothing to forgive. All I can do is keep receiving what you give—and let that be enough."
His throat worked, his chest pulling tight at her words. He pulled her into him as though he might never let her go again, pressing his lips to her hair. "Then I'll give," he murmured against her. "For as long as I breathe, I'll give."
And with the rhythm of the sea outside and the warmth of her in his arms, Adrian finally slept—deep, dreamless, unafraid.
For the first time, tomorrow didn't feel like a threat. It felt like a promise.