Chapter 26
Luna
The second we see her walk away, a particular kind of silence sizzles between us, broken only by our daughter’s gurgles. An awareness we took for granted has been absent for a while … until now.
For a moment, we stand here, me in front, peeping into the screen while Isaac is behind me with his hands braced against the door on either side of me. We both savour the tension that used to be second nature to us.
Then I turn, and Isaac is right here with this expression on his face.
His arms come around me and Amelie, pulling us against him so tightly that I let out a startled breath. Our girl, the world’s cutest and most effective contraceptive, squawks indignantly between us, trapped in the middle of whatever emotional breakdown her parents are apparently having.
“Don’t say things like that,” he whispers roughly into my hair.
“What things?”
“About riding me …” His arms are gentle, but there is no give. “Don’t say it unless you mean it. Don’t even joke about it.”
Up close, I can see how blown his pupils are, eating up almost all the blue of his eyes. Adrenaline makes the vein in his neck throb, and a flush rises from his neck up to his cheeks. He looks furious and shaken and something else entirely.
His gaze drops to my mouth with intent to derail my thought process.
Let’s face it, there is absolutely nothing sexy about me right now.
I smell faintly of baby sick. My hair is a disaster. There’s probably dried milk somewhere on my shirt.
Also—
“I need to warn you,” I say solemnly. “There is a stench developing.”
He doesn’t even blink, still watching my lips move.
“Details. I laugh in the face of baby poop. Especially since I managed to get it on my face yesterday,” he mutters.
“Isaac,” I say, trying not to laugh now. “Amelie has almost definitely done another massive dump.”
“Still worth it if you are still thinking of riding. But if you are tired, you can let me do all the work and lie there. I am willing to make the effort.” He does his best to put on a long-suffering look and fails.
“I will just spread your legs and eat you out until you have a couple of nice orgasms. And then we are both happy.”
Isaac pulls me even closer, like he wants to crawl inside my skin, which earns him another deeply offended squeak from the squashed baby, who now stinks like she is going radioactive.
This is the moment that the smell properly hits.
His face changes instantly.
“Oh, Christ. Maybe my precious does need a change.”
I burst out laughing.
“That is pretty bad, huh?”
He takes Amelie from me with the expression of a man resigned to another failed attempt.
“See how much I love you?” he mutters darkly to his daughter, whose diaper is starting to droop with gravity. He notices as well and speed-walks towards the upstairs nursery.
I follow him, leaning against the doorway while he changes the nappy at the speed of light, his face locked into grim determination.
“You know,” I say sweetly, “someone once said he wanted four kids.”
Isaac doesn’t even look up.
“Even men are allowed to change their minds.”
Amelie kicks her legs happily while he works like a bomb disposal expert.
“Two,” he declares firmly. “Two will do. Maybe just one.”
I snort.
He finally finishes, sealing the nappy bag shut with the relief of a man surviving a near-death experience. Then he looks at me, and his expression softens completely.
“It’s nice to have you back, Luna.”
The words flutter like fireflies coming my way.
He doesn’t need to explain what he means … I know. Because it is nice to have me back.
The fog in my head has lifted these last few weeks. I watch Korean dramas and wonder why all the kisses take ages. I tease Isaac again. I don’t feel like I’m drowning every time the baby cries. I feel lucky to have her.
More and more, I feel like grumpy old Luna again.
And standing here, looking at him, holding our daughter with his T-shirt half untucked and watching the unfiltered relief at seeing me smile in those bright blue eyes—
I don’t doubt for a second that he’s part of the reason why.
I smile softly.
“Thanks for becoming the new and improved Isaac,” I tell him. “I couldn’t have managed without you.”
A vulnerable expression flickers across his face now, like the words mean everything.
***
I’m folding tiny sleepsuits into the laundry basket when Mum calls to FaceTime.
Honestly, I still don’t understand how someone so small produces this much washing.
There are vests. Bibs. Muslins. Tiny socks that disappear into another dimension. Now, they are all mismatched. Little sleepsuits with strawberries on them. Sleepsuits with ducks on them. Sleepsuits with mysterious stains that defy modern science.
I’m fairly certain that Amelie’s laundry alone outweighs mine and Isaac’s combined. Possibly multiplied twice. Meanwhile, Isaac and I have essentially been rotating through the same three traumatised outfits for weeks.
Mum launches straight into an update about the bathroom renovations before I can even say hello.
“The tiles are finally done,” she announces. “And your father somehow ordered the wrong sink again.”
I hum softly while folding another tiny vest and spot a patch of dried yellow goo that I somehow missed.
“In his defence—”
“There is no defence,” she says immediately. “That man should not be allowed near measurements.”
Dad mutters something in a deeply offended tone in the background.
Amelie lets out a loud squeal from her playmat.
Mum’s whole face softens instantly.
“Oh! Let me see my girl.”
I lift Amelie into my lap and angle the phone down. Mum coos immediately as my girl attempts to eat the corner of the blanket like the fate of the galaxy depends on it.
“She’s getting so big,” Mum says wistfully. I know she is waiting for when we visit them in a couple of months.
“She has two modes. Adorable angel and hangry demon,” I correct.
“You were exactly like that. Your cousin brother used to eat your baby food, and somehow, you seemed to know.”
I sigh, thinking of my brother, who will be back from active duty soon. “I hope I peed on him regularly to pay him back for his greed.”
For a little while, we just talk about how awful the weather has been.
How the neighbour’s dog, who my dad calls a rat-terrier, chews on his newspaper and leaves little nuggets on the lawn for him to find.
The fact that Dad nearly electrocuted himself trying to “help” with wiring.
Mum is calling it self-resuscitation for extreme stupidity.
Then, Mum asks, in a serious tone, “And how did the visit go?”
I know immediately which one she means. I shift slightly against the sofa.
“Social services seemed happy,” I say. “We got a letter yesterday.”
Mum seems to be holding her breath.
“And?”
“They said everything looks stable now. One more visit in three months and they’ll probably close the case.”
The relief that washes over her face hurts a little to look at. It also makes me feel guilty about how much I made her worry—made them all worry.
Because underneath the relief, I can still see the shock. The fear. That I might do it again.
I don’t think my parents will ever fully recover from walking into that hospital room and realising that their daughter almost died by her own hand.
I don’t think any of us will. I sometimes wake up and sense that Isaac has just closed his eyes.
“That’s good,” she says softly. “That’s very good.”
I hear footsteps. Isaac appears in the doorway in grey joggers that hug that devastating butt and an old Black Sabbath T-shirt that clings faithfully to his rock-hard abs, rubbing the back of his neck while heading towards the kitchen.
Through the well-worn material, I can see the shape of his cock.
He grabs a glass from the cupboard and fills it from the water jug while Mum asks me why I look so flushed.
Mum spots him immediately.
“Oh. Hi, Isaac.”
Their relationship has … changed.
Before Mum left, she’d practically been running military operations around him. Detailed written instructions. Feeding schedules for me. Lists on the fridge. Colour-coded reminders.
I distinctly remember her standing in the kitchen, stabbing a finger at him, saying, “If she says she’s fine, assume she is lying.”
Now, four weeks later, she still calls him separately almost every day.
And Isaac looks like a schoolboy summoned to the headmistress’ office every single time.
I grin wickedly.
“Mum wants you.”
His shoulders visibly tense.
“What did I do?”
“Unknown,” I say solemnly, fluttering my lashes. “Thoughts and prayers coming your way, my friend.”
He narrows his eyes at me before taking the phone cautiously.
“Hi, Nora.”
My mother immediately launches into something serious enough that has Isaac straightening his spine.
Then he takes the phone into his office and shuts the door.
Suspicious. Very suspicious.
Naturally, I abandon the laundry and tiptoe down the hallway like the mature adult I am.
The office door isn’t fully shut, thank God. So much easier to eavesdrop.
“… and she needs proper rest, Isaac,” Mum is saying sternly. “Not just naps while holding the baby.”
“Yes, Nora.”
“And don’t let her skip meals because she’s busy.”
“Yes, Nora.”
“Has she started the calcium and iron again?”
A pause.
“Mostly. she says they make her constipated.”
“Isaac.”
“I’m trying.”
I bite down hard on a laugh. He sounds painfully meek, like a man being interrogated by an extremely disappointed general.
“And what about you?” Mum asks suddenly.
“I’m fine.”
“That was not the question.”
Another long pause. He is probably wondering how to tell his mother-in-law that he has been abstinent for a while now. Or not.
Then, more gently, she asks, “Are you taking care of yourself? Eating properly? Are you sleeping now?”
“Eating fine. Trying to sleep,” he admits quietly.
“Don’t forget your own health in all this,” Mum scolds. “You can’t pour from an empty cup.”
There’s a long silence after that.
Then Isaac says, very softly, “I know.”
And suddenly, I don’t feel like laughing anymore. While Isaac is taking care of me, who is taking care of Isaac?