Page 10 of Finding the Pieces

“I like that one on you,” he says, nodding at my stolen sweatshirt.

“I think it’s as old as our relationship,” I say with a laugh as Luca crawls over to me as fast as he can, focused and grunting, until he reaches my ankles. I pick him up, holding him close and kissing his head, breathing him in.

My milk lets down.

Hot, right?

I plop onto the couch, placing a firm pillow underneath Luca, kissing his light brown hair—just as messy as his dad’s darker hair—before getting us both comfortable. He doesn’t nurse nearly as often now as he used to, but I’m not rushing the weaning process.

I don’t miss the way Dom’s gaze lingers on my chest before Luca latches. Dom coughs into his fist, strokes his beard, which is longer than normal and in need of a trim, and starts picking up Luca’s toys scattered throughout the living room.

I hide my smirk and focus on Luca. The ladies have beenthrough itafter a year of breastfeeding, but that doesn’t seem to stop Dom from appreciating them.

At least some things haven’t changed.

“Older, actually. Pretty sure I got that one during orientation my freshman year,” he says.

“Jesus, what’d they make this thing with?” The letters spelling outUniversity of Columbusmight be cracked and faded, but the fabric has that perfect softness that can only be achieved after years of wash and wear. Three things that only get better with time—sweatshirts, sweatpants, and Dom’s laugh, which he shares with me now.

“With how much they charged us for tuition, it better last me the rest of my life.”

“I think you meanme.” I smile at him.

He straightens, leveling me with a serious look. His face turning serious, he practically growls at me. “No. Don’t even think about it. It’s one of my favorites.”

“I’m sorry, babe. It’s the natural life cycle of old hoodies. There’s no use fighting it. Eventually, they all make their way to my side of the closet. You can say hi when I wear it.”

He gives me an appraising look, and I have to fight not to roll my eyes. Only Dominic Moretti would ogle me in sweats, my hair a mess, one giant nursing nipple out in the wind, not to mention the permanent dark circles under my eyes from almost a year of the shittiest sleep imaginable.

“It’s yours, Ellie…like everything else,” he says, making his way to me. His eyes lock with mine as he brushes the flyaway hairs away from my forehead before placing a soft kiss there as well.

“Looks better on you anyway. Thanks for taking care of our boy, Mama.”

Then he winks, and my stomach does the thing. That little flop, my heartbeat kicking in the base of my throat. That heat rising to my cheeks because he is looking at melike that.

Seven years together and he still looks at melike that.

A flicker of heat rekindles long enough for me to appreciate him appreciating me. But when I imagine taking things further later on tonight when we finally get a rare minute to ourselves, my gut wrenches.

No, not tonight.

The three of us settle into a comfortable silence, Dom tidying up while Luca finishes nursing. When I put him back down to play, he crawls as fast as his little body will take him to the bin of toys Dom just put away.

He rolls his eyes, before falling onto the couch next to me. Before, we would have snuggled up together, hands interlocked, me leaning into the space between his arm and side, head curled up against his chest.

The silence is screaming. Things are so different between us now. It’s evident in every moment of our day. I see it—I feel it—all day long.Does he feel it too?

“I’m going to close my eyes and pretend our son isn’t about to trash this room for the fifteenth time today,” Dom says.

“I want to tell you it’s going to get better, but with his birthday coming up, our friends and family will inevitably buy him gifts with ten thousand pieces. It’s going to get so much worse.”

“Fuck, you’re right,” he says, swiping a palm over his face on a deep exhale.

“We could ask that everyone skips the gifts,” I suggest passively.

He looks at me, eyes wide with disbelief as he whispers in horror, “But it’s hisbirthday.”

I giggle at his mortification. “He’sone. He’s not going to care.”

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