I looked at him. “By smearing the mother of your child.”
His jaw flexed. “The post is coming down.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
His eyes moved to the bassinet. Leo slept through all of it, one cheek pressed against the sheet, unaware that adults were trying to drag him into their pride.
Then Ethan said, in a tone I had never heard from him before, “No one touches my son.”
It wasn’t tender.
It wasn’t warm.
It was territorial, yes—but not in the way his mother had meant it.
More like a line carved in stone.
That evening, the post disappeared.
At 9:07 p.m., he texted me three words.
Wedding is off.
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Then I set the phone facedown and went back to logging Leo’s feed schedule.
Because dramatic sentences don’t wash bottles or take temperatures.
The next morning, Ethan showed up early carrying a small paper bag from a pharmacy.
Inside were practical things: infant-safe sanitizer, diaper cream, saline drops.
No flowers. No grand speech.
Just the right items.
“Did he sleep?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He washed his hands and waited.
I handed him the baby.