Two months had passed since Aurora's first cry echoed through that hospital room — since the moment everything began to shift between Dominic and me.
It hadn't been easy. Not by a long shot.
There were still walls between us, still unspoken words and cautious glances. But beneath it all, something was growing. A fragile hope I hadn't dared to feel in a long time.
Today, I was moving back in.
I stood at the doorway of Dominic's house, the place I had once called home — and once fled from — and felt a mix of fear and resolve swirl in my chest.
Aurora slept soundly in her car seat beside me, bundled up against the morning chill.
Dominic appeared before I even knocked.
He looked the same, but different — softer, maybe. Less like a man who needed to control everything and more like someone who was learning to let go.
"I wasn't sure you'd actually come," he said, voice low, eyes wary but hopeful.
"I wasn't sure either," I admitted, stepping inside.
The house smelled like fresh flowers and the faint scent of coffee. It was still a house, but now it felt less like a fortress.
Dominic bent down and lifted Aurora gently from her seat, cradling her with an ease I'd never seen before.
"She's growing fast," I murmured, smiling despite myself.
"Like her mother," he said softly.
We moved through the rooms together — setting up a nursery corner, unpacking clothes, laughing quietly at the tiny socks that somehow looked too big for her.
At one point, I caught him watching me from across the room, his eyes reflecting a mix of admiration and something like relief.
I felt myself relax.
Maybe this was our new beginning.
Not perfect. Not without scars.
But real.
As the sun dipped low, casting warm light across the hardwood floors, Dominic reached for my hand.
No grand gestures. No promises.
Just a simple touch.
"I'm glad you're here," he said.
And for the first time in months, I believed it.