CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DAN
I didn’t mean for it to become a points system.
That’s the thing.
I genuinely thought I was helping.
In my head, I was doing the right thing. Doing more. Stepping up. Showing effort. And, yes, maybe hoping that effort would lead to something. Not because I thought Emma owed me. Not exactly.
But because I missed her.
Missed the way she used to look at me like I was trouble.
Missed the way she’d grab my shirt and drag me upstairs without a second thought.
Missed feeling wanted.
And somewhere along the line, that turned into me treating sex like proof.
Proof that we were okay. Proof that she still desired me. Proof that I hadn’t lost her somewhere between PTA emails and yoghurt-stained leggings.
So when I emptied the dishwasher or bathed the kids, part of me thought, this is it. This is what she needs. She said she wanted help. I’m helping. That means we’re closer now, right?
But when she snapped and said she wasn’t a reward system, it hit me in a place I didn’t expect.
Because she was right.
I’d turned something that should’ve been partnership into currency.
Not deliberately. Just… lazily.
And the worst part?
I didn’t even realise I’d done it.
Watching her lately has been… confronting.
Not because she’s failing.
Because she isn’t. She’s carrying everything.
The school emails. The packed lunches. The remembering of birthdays. The noticing when we’re low on toothpaste. The knowing which kid likes which cup.
The invisible, endless, unglamorous mental juggling.
And I stroll in thinking, I mopped. I deserve applause.
It’s embarrassing when you say it out loud.
The cupcake night did something to me.
I’d thought I was “helping.” But when we were all in that kitchen, flour in Sophie’s hair, Ruby covered in Angel Delight, Oscar pretending not to love the chaos, I realised something uncomfortable.
Emma does this every day.
Not just the physical stuff.
The energy. The orchestration. The emotional glue. She holds the mood of the house together.
And I dip in and out of it.
That night, when she looked at us, properly looked, I saw something soften in her face.
Not lust. Not obligation.
Relief.
And it hit me that relief might be more powerful than foreplay.
I don’t think I’ve ever been scared of losing Emma to another man. I’ve been scared of losing her to exhaustion. To resentment.
To the slow erosion that happens when two people stop seeing each other because they’re too busy surviving.
When she stands at the kettle in the morning and stares at nothing, I see it now. The weight. The running-on-empty. And I hate that I used to think a bum grab counted as intimacy.
It doesn’t.
Not if she’s drowning.
I’ve been trying. Actually trying. Not the performative, “look at me loading the dishwasher” kind. The quiet kind.
Noticing when the laundry basket is full and just doing it. Answering the school email before she does. Buying batteries without being told. Taking Ruby when she’s ill without making it sound heroic.
And something strange has happened.
I don’t feel like I’m helping.
I feel like I’m parenting.
Like this is just… my job. Our job. Not hers.
And when I stopped expecting something in return, something shifted.
She leaned into me on the sofa last night. Unprompted. Just rested her head against my chest. No tension. No calculation. Just closeness. It did more for me than any quick, tired, half-resentful sex ever could.
But here’s the truth I’m not proud of. I still miss it. The heat. The hunger. The reckless, can’t-keep-our-hands-off-each-other version of us.
And sometimes, when weeks slip by and we’re back to pecks and logistics, a small, selfish part of me panics.
What if this is just… marriage now?
What if that spark only comes in bursts?
What if the chaos always wins?
I don’t say it out loud. Because I don’t want to put more pressure on her. But I feel it. The insecurity.
The wondering if she still sees me that way.
Tonight, after the cupcakes, after the laughter, after she went upstairs to shower, I stayed in the kitchen longer than I needed to. I wiped down counters that didn’t need wiping. I stood there in the quiet and tried to be honest with myself.
Do I want sex?
Yes.
Do I want Emma?
God, yes.
But more than that?
I want her not to feel like she’s failing at everything.
I want her to look at me the way she did in that restaurant again.
I want to be the person she relaxes around.
Not the person she feels owes something to.
That’s harder work. Less immediate reward.
No gold stars. No guaranteed outcome. Just effort. Real effort.
She comes downstairs eventually, hair damp, oversized t-shirt on, smelling like her shampoo. She looks tired. Beautiful. Human.
I open my mouth to say something clever. Flirty. Light. Instead, I just say, “Come here.”
She raises an eyebrow but walks over. I pull her into my chest and hold her. Just hold her. After a second, she melts into me. And quietly, against my shirt, she exhales. And I realise something. This, this right here, might be the real spark. Not the fireworks.
The steadiness. The choosing. Again and again.
Even when it’s not sexy. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when I don’t get immediate payoff.
Because if I’m honest? I don’t want to win her. I want to deserve her.