CHAPTER 67
THEIR FIRST DATE OUT
The city lights shimmered softly against the windows of the quiet seaside restaurant Dante had reserved. It wasn't flashy or crowded—just a calm place by the water, where they used to walk hand in hand before everything changed.
Auri stood near the entrance, her fingers nervously twisting the fabric of her dress. She rarely wore dresses anymore. She barely left the house anymore. Just stepping outside today felt like walking on trembling ground.
Dante approached her slowly, careful not to overwhelm her.
"You look beautiful," he said gently, not pushing, not expecting a smile.
But Auri blushed anyway, lowering her gaze. "I… almost didn't come," she whispered.
"I know," Dante replied softly. "But I'm glad you did. We don't have to talk about anything heavy. We don't have to pretend. We're just… together tonight. That's enough."
Auri inhaled shakily. "Okay."
Inside, they sat by the window overlooking the sea. The waves crashed rhythmically, as if trying to soothe the space between them.
For a while, they ate in quiet. Not awkward silence—just two people relearning how to exist beside each other.
Auri was the first to speak.
"Do you… ever think about what life was supposed to look like by now?" She stared at her untouched food. "Sometimes I feel like I'm frozen in time. Like I can't move forward because it feels like I'm leaving them behind."
Dante's expression softened, pained but steady.
"I think about it every day," he admitted. "But I also know one thing—moving forward doesn't mean forgetting. We carry them with us, no matter how many steps we take."
Auri's eyes glistened, tears threatening. "I'm trying… but it hurts too much."
"I know." Dante reached out and gently covered her hand with his. "Tonight isn't about healing everything. It's just about us trying one small thing together."
Auri's lip trembled. "I'm scared."
"Then I'll be scared with you," he whispered.
Her tears finally fell—quiet, fragile drops she didn't bother to wipe away. But she didn't pull her hand from his. Not this time.
And Dante felt something warm break through the cold distance between them.
Not healing.
Not yet.
But the beginning of it.
REBUILDING INTIMACY
Later that night, back at the mansion, Dante unlocked the front door but paused, waiting for Auri to step in first. She hesitated only a moment before entering.
Inside, the soft glow of the hallway lights wrapped around them.
Auri removed her shoes slowly, her movements stiff. "Dante…" she murmured, not meeting his eyes.
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry if I've been… cold. Or distant. I know you're trying. I know you're hurting too."
Dante stepped closer, careful, like approaching a fragile flame.
"You never need to apologize for grieving."
"But I pushed you away," she whispered, voice breaking. "And I feel like I don't deserve you. Or your patience. Or—or your love."
Her voice cracked on the last word.
Dante cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing her cheeks. "Auri… I love you. Even when you're hurting. Even when you think you're difficult. Even when you think you're undeserving. I love you because you're you."
Her breath hitched, her lashes trembling.
"Can I hold you?" he asked quietly.
She nodded—small, almost imperceptible, but she nodded.
He pulled her into his chest, arms wrapping around her waist. Auri melted into him slowly, as if rediscovering the shape of safety. Her cheek pressed against his chest, and she listened to the steady beating of his heart.
"Dante…" she murmured into his shirt, voice barely audible. "I miss… being close to you."
His hand stilled on her back. "We can go slow. Any pace you want. Or just stay like this. Whatever you need."
She pulled back slightly, her eyes soft, searching him. "Just… kiss me. Please."
Dante leaned in and kissed her gently at first—slow, tender, testing her comfort. But Auri's hands slid up his shoulders, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss with aching need.
It wasn't the passionate hunger they used to have.
It was fragile, trembling, healing.
Auri's breath shuddered. "I need you," she whispered. "I need to feel something warm again."
Dante lifted her carefully, carrying her toward their room, kissing her forehead, her temple, her jaw along the way.
"I'm right here," he murmured. "Always."
They made love slowly—no urgency, no heat-driven frenzy—just soft touches, deep breaths, whispered reassurances.
Auri cried quietly halfway through, tears sliding down her temples. Dante wiped each one gently, never stopping, never letting her feel alone.
And when they finally drifted into each other's arms afterward, Auri whispered into his chest:
"Thank you… for not giving up on me."
Dante tightened his hold around her, brushing her hair with his fingers.
"I never will."
THE BREAKDOWN
Days passed.
Auri began eating a little more. Speaking a little more. Smiling once or twice, though they were faint and brief.
But recovery isn't a straight line.
One late afternoon, Auri stood alone in the nursery that had been emptied out months ago. The room looked bare, stripped of the hope it once held. Only the curtains remained—the ones she had picked with excitement.
Her fingers traced the fabric, and suddenly her knees buckled.
A sob tore from her throat—raw, sudden, uncontrollable.
She crumpled onto the floor.
"Why… why does it still hurt so much?" she cried, her voice shaking violently. "Why can't I be normal again?"
Dante, who had been walking down the hall, heard her cry out and rushed inside.
"Auri!" he gasped, immediately kneeling beside her.
She grabbed his shirt, shaking, sobbing uncontrollably. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Dante! For everything—for losing our baby—for being a mess—for making you deal with me—I'm so sorry!"
"Stop," Dante whispered, pulling her into his arms as she trembled. "Auri, stop. You didn't do anything wrong."
"I SHOULD HAVE PROTECTED THEM!" she screamed into his chest, her voice breaking. "I should have been careful! I should have—should have—"
"NO," Dante said firmly, gripping her shoulders gently but with conviction. "It wasn't your fault. It was an accident. A horrible accident. You didn't kill our baby. You didn't do anything wrong."
But Auri shook her head violently, tears streaming.
"I'm broken… I'm ruining your life…"
"You're not ruining anything," Dante breathed, pulling her onto his lap, holding her tight. "You are my life, Auri. With or without a child. With or without a perfect smile. I love you. I choose you."
"But what if I can't heal?" she whispered, voice barely holding together. "What if I never get better?"
"Then I'll stay with you through every broken piece until we figure it out," Dante said, kissing her forehead. "You don't have to be okay today. Or tomorrow. Or for a long time. I'll wait."
Auri's sobs quieted into trembling breaths as she clung to him.
"Dante… will we ever be okay?" she whispered.
"Yes," he said without hesitation. "Because we're going through this together."
She buried her face in his neck.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"I know," Dante murmured. "But I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
And for the first time in months, Auri allowed herself to believe it—just a little.
That maybe she wasn't alone.
That maybe she didn't have to heal perfectly to be loved.
That maybe they could rebuild something… slowly… painfully… beautifully.
Together.