Henry cradled Vivian gently in his arms, the baby's soft breaths rising and falling against his chest. Her small fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt as if she, even in her innocence, could sense the storm surrounding the adults in the room. His steps were slow, measured, and each one took him closer to Chantel—closer to the woman who used to smile at him like he was her world but now couldn't even bear to look in his direction.
He approached the couch where Chantel sat, her posture rigid, her gaze locked on a point far away, lost in thought. The tension between them was thick, like invisible walls that neither dared to break through. Henry lowered himself beside her carefully, mindful of the child in his arms, but his eyes—his eyes never left Chantel's face. The longing in them was almost painful to witness.
