Page 95 of Unravelling: Aria & Crispin
She gasped quietly, hand pressing down.
Crispin's eyes followed her gesture. "What is it?"
"Do you want to feel the baby move?"
"Yes...yes, of course I do. Yes."
She took his hand, guided it to her belly, and held it there.
There it was. Another kick.
He went still, as if bracing himself in that moment and hoping for another one.
Aria's heart ached as she watched him. She wasn't ready to forgive him yet.
But from the look on his face, there was no doubt in her mind that this child would have his heart.
She wouldn't deny him this, not when her parents had been denied a lifetime with their children.
Chapter 50
Crispin
The days fell into a rhythm like the tide at their doorstep. Neither of them spoke of it, as though naming it might jinx the fragile balance they'd found.
Crispin would rise early, long before the sun reached the windows of his sea-facing room. He'd sit in a chair by the window, bundled up in a dressing gown against the cold salty wind, taking his video calls with his camera angled strategically to hide the faint shadows under his eyes. Board members, legal updates, transitional strategies-it all played out in quiet, clipped tones.
Then, once his calls were done, he would find her.
Always.
Sometimes it was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up as she prepped pastry with her brows furrowed in concentration.
Other times it was in the garden behind the inn, where she worked on the flowerbeds, the sea wind tugging her braid like a teasing child.
"Need help?" he'd ask. And he would give it his best effort if she grumbled 'yes.'
"Can you not turn every pillowcase into a crumpled sock?" she had asked dryly when she'd had to redo the bed. But there was this warm fuzzy feeling in her chest because he followed her around like a lost puppy, like he was afraid she would disappear.
So, she let him try.
And each day, when evening came and she settled with her quilting frame and threads, Crispin would open his laptop and work in silence. Sometimes they spoke of little things, good memories of their first year together. Words that filled the spaces but didn't scratch at wounds.
"I booked my room for a month," he mentioned one night, quietly, without looking up.
Aria didn't answer, but she didn't ask him to leave, either. She didn’t want him to stay on some days, but she didn't think she could bear it if he left.
Two weeks passed like that. Measured in steaming cups of tea, the fluttering of a baby's foot, the faint hum of machines from the kitchen.
But not every day was soft.
Some days, pain erupted from nowhere, like a stitch pulled too tight.
Once, she lashed out, her voice sharp as a serrated knife, when he asked her if she would consider coming back to London with him.
"I remember everything, you know. The way you used to look at me...like I didn't belong in your world. Like I was a complication you could do without."
He stood still, hands by his sides. "You weren't a complication. You were everything that made it bearable."
