21. Rediscovering Romance
REDISCOVERING ROMANCE
Liam is finally asleep. Not the “pretending to be asleep while plotting chaos” kind, but the real kind—the limp-limbed, soft-breathing, drooling-on-the-blanket sleep that only toddlers can fall into after burning through every ounce of energy they own.
I stand there for a moment, watching his tiny chest rise and fall under his dinosaur pajamas, letting the quiet settle around me. It’s been days since the apartment felt this still.
Days since I wasn’t racing between work deadlines, daycare pickups, dinner that burned a little on the bottom, and FaceTime calls squeezed between Reid’s group meetings. And tonight… I want something different. I want us.
I close Liam’s door as quietly as possible, then exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for a week straight.
The living room is dim, the dishwasher humming lazily in the background, and my laptop is on the coffee table—closed on purpose.
Tonight is not for work. Hazel pops into my head as I move through the apartment getting things ready.
“You can’t keep letting life eat your romance alive,” she told me earlier this week over lunch, stabbing her fork into a salad with more passion than the salad deserved. “Do something cute. Something fun. Something that reminds him you’re still in this with him.”
“I don’t have time to plan a parade,” I said.
“Good,” she said. “He doesn’t need a parade. He needs to feel like you’re choosing him on purpose.”
That stuck with me. So I made a plan.
I set up the living room earlier—blanket draped across the couch, soft lamp lighting, snacks I actually remembered to buy sitting in a bowl. I even brushed out my hair and changed into a soft black top that Hazel claimed was my “secret weapon,” even though it’s literally just a top that fits well.
“It frames your collarbones,” Hazel insisted. “Men are stupid. They love collarbones.”
I didn’t argue. Mostly because she’s probably right.
Tonight is supposed to be our “long-distance date night”—a phrase that would make me roll my eyes if it weren’t something I genuinely want. We decided we’d watch the same movie together and talk through it like we do when he’s home on the couch beside me.
Small. Not complicated. But ours. I double-check the baby monitor. Liam is still out. I grab my phone and text:
Ready when you are
He reads it immediately.
Reid: Just finishing something. 2 mins.
That tiny flutter in my stomach hits—the one that reminds me this still matters.
That he still matters. That we’re still trying.
I glance around the apartment, making sure everything is set.
The blanket is pulled up, the snacks are ready, the lighting isn’t making me look like a raccoon. Good. Great. Perfect.
I settle onto the couch, smoothing out a wrinkle in my shirt out of nerves I don’t want to admit to having. It’s just a movie. Just Reid. Except… it’s not just a movie. Not after the stress of the last few weeks. Not after the pressure and the long days and the missed calls.
This is me trying to reconnect with the boy—no, the man—I love.
A moment later, the screen lights up with an incoming FaceTime call.
I smile and swipe to accept. Reid appears on screen, hair slightly messy from running his hand through it, sitting on his dorm bed.
His lamp casts a soft glow over half his face, making him look older and younger at the same time.
“Wow,” he says, eyes trailing up and then down in that shameless way he never tries to hide. “You look…”
He pauses like he’s searching for the right word.
“I look…?” I tease.
“Unfair,” he finishes. “You look unfair.”
I laugh softly. “It’s just a shirt.”
“Yeah,” he says. “A shirt that’s plotting my emotional destruction.”
My cheeks warm. “Shut up.”
He grins, dimples flashing. “Never.”
This—this right here—is why I wanted tonight to work.
“How was your day?” he asks.
“Busy,” I say. “But good. I’m ready to relax.”
“Me too,” he says. “I’ve been waiting all day for this.”
Something inside me softens at that. It’s easy to forget he’s tired too. That he’s juggling his own world full of stress and expectations. That we’re not opponents in this, even when it feels like we’re slipping out of rhythm.
“Did you pick the movie?” I ask.
“I did,” he says, holding up his laptop. “You said nothing too sad, nothing too dumb, and nothing too long.”
“I’m picky,” I admit.
“No,” he says, “you’re perfect.”
I roll my eyes, but my smile stays. He settles back on his bed, getting comfortable. I do the same, pulling the blanket across my lap.
“Okay,” he says. “You ready? On three.”
“On three,” I echo.
“One… two… th?—”
The chime of an incoming email pings from my laptop across the room. I ignore it. Tonight is not for work. Tonight is for us. Except… my stomach twists. It’s late. Eric never emails this late.
Reid pauses mid-count. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say immediately. Too immediately. “Fine. Sorry. Keep going.”
He gives me a look—the one that says he knows exactly when I’m lying—but he lets it slide.
We press play at the same time, and the movie opens with the kind of soft music and sweeping scenery that usually pulls me in immediately.
But my mind keeps drifting toward my laptop.
What if it’s something urgent? A system issue?
A mistake I missed? A deadline I forgot? I try to force myself to focus on the screen. On Reid’s voice as he says commentary under his breath. On the warmth building between us. But another email ping hits. Followed by a third.
Reid’s eyes flick toward the sound. “You can check it if you need to.”
“I don’t,” I say too quickly.
“Amelia…”
“I don’t!” I insist, tugging the blanket tighter across my lap. “It’s date night. I’m here.”
He smiles gently. “I know you’re here. I also know your brain is now ten steps over there next to the closed laptop.”
I huff out a breath. “I just… want to be present with you.”
“And I want you not to stress,” he says. “So if you need to check it, just check it.”
I stare at him through the screen, torn between pride and panic.
“I’ll be fast,” I finally say, setting my phone down and crossing the room.
I open the laptop. My inbox is lighting up.
Eric: URGENT – Need your eyes on this before tomorrow morning
Eric: Sorry for late ping — blocker on the integration
Eric: Can you review tonight?
I swallow hard. Of course it’s tonight. Of course it’s now. I close the laptop with a soft click, walk back to the couch, and pick up my phone. Reid’s face fills the screen again.
“Crisis?” he asks lightly.
“Kind of,” I say. “He needs something tonight.”
He nods once. “Okay.”
“I can wait,” I say quickly. “At least until the movie is over.”
He hesitates. Just enough to feel it.
“You don’t have to,” he says. “If work needs you—go.”
The words land soft. But they land heavy.
“Reid…”
“It’s fine,” he says, his smile small but not angry. “Really. I get it.”
The warmth from earlier dims. Not disappears—just dims.
“Can we…” I start, trying again. “Can we at least finish the scene we’re on?”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Of course.”
We try. We both pretend to focus. We both pretend it’s still working. We both pretend nothing shifted. But the spark we were trying so hard to build tonight… it’s flickering. By the time we finally pause the movie, Reid looks tired. Not annoyed. Just tired.
“I’ll let you get to work,” he says.
“Reid, wait?—”
“It’s fine,” he repeats, but the disappointment underneath is unmistakable.
I feel like I’m trying to hold water in my hands—everything keeps slipping through the cracks.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says.
We hang up without a fight. The silence after is brutal.
I open my laptop again, the glow of the screen lighting the room as I dive into the work emergency.
My fingers move, my brain engages, but my heart sits heavy in my chest. Hazel was right.
Life is eating romance alive. And I’m trying so hard to keep pieces of it safe.
But tonight… I wasn’t fast enough. And as I finally crawl into bed hours later, exhaustion turning everything blurry, one thought echoes louder than the rest: What if this isn’t enough?
What if trying isn’t enough? Because love is here.
Commitment is here. Effort is here. But tonight, none of it felt like enough to stop us from slipping a little farther apart.
The next morning starts the way too many mornings do: with me jolting awake to the sound of Liam yelling “UP!” like he’s a drill sergeant and I’m a very disappointing recruit.
My eyes feel gritty. My brain pulses behind my forehead. And my heart still feels bruised from last night in that quiet, subtle way you feel when something didn’t break but definitely bent.
I scoop Liam from his crib, kiss the top of his head, and go through the motions—breakfast, getting dressed, packing his bag—but everything feels off-balance. Like I’m walking on a treadmill someone set to an incline without warning. Hazel texts me mid-morning:
Hazel: You survived date night??
…define survived.
Hazel: Oh no. What happened, Campbell???
I don’t answer. Not because she wouldn’t understand—Hazel could probably write a thesis about long-distance relationship dynamics—but because I know if I try to put last night into words, I’ll end up crying or ranting or both, and I don’t have the emotional bandwidth or waterproof mascara for that.
By lunchtime, my shoulders feel like I’ve been carrying groceries for twelve miles, and I’m staring at my computer screen trying to convince myself that rewriting a project brief is a perfectly normal Saturday-adjacent task. When my phone buzzes, I reach for it without thinking.
Reid: Hey. How’s your morning?
My chest tightens—not painfully, more like a long sigh I haven’t let out yet.
Busy. You?
Reid: Just finished practice. Coach murdered us. Also, I miss you.
The simplicity of it hits harder than it should.
I miss you too.