More Than Just Parents
For months, it felt as though the universe was conspiring against us. Every time Mark and I found a sliver of privacy, something intervened—the baby’s sudden cry or a ringing phone. We were drifting into the comfortable, yet sterile, routine of parenthood, forgetting the electric current that used to snap between us.
I could tell Mark was struggling too. I’d catch him staring at me while I drifted off to sleep, his eyes lingering on the curves of my hips with a hunger that made my skin prickle. He was a devoted father, but I knew the man beneath the dad-persona was aching for his wife.
Then came a rainy Friday afternoon. The house was quiet, the rhythmic drumming of the rain creating a sanctuary. The baby had fallen fast asleep, lulled by the warmth of the heater. Mark walked into the room, his gaze intense. He didn’t say a word; he simply reached out and pulled me against his chest, his hands gripping my waist with a desperation that mirrored my own. The kiss was sudden and hungry, a collision of months of repressed longing. In that moment, we weren’t just parents; we were two lovers rediscovering the fire that had started it all.