ECHOES OF US | 18+ ✔️

CHAPTER 36

MIA

(3 months later)

With Danté still recovering, our days at home have become quieter, more intimate—a bittersweet silver lining to the chaos that brought us here. Though his recovery keeps him close, giving us time together, the circumstances still weigh heavily on us both. These moments feel like fragile treasures, a chance to grow closer and truly live in the spaces we might otherwise have missed.

But the past months since Skylar's birth have been a kaleidoscope of emotions—beautiful, demanding, and heavy with the shadows of Danté's ordeal. His wounds may be healing physically, but the deeper scars linger. The strength that once defined him has faltered, replaced by frustration and a quiet sense of defeat.

Simple tasks—lifting Skylar from her crib or pacing the living room with her in his arms—leave him worn out, his irritation bubbling beneath the surface. The anger in his voice sometimes catches me off guard, but it's the regret in his eyes afterward that cuts the deepest. I see the helplessness eating away at him, unraveling the confidence that once seemed untouchable.

The nights, however, are when the real battles come. Danté often wakes in a cold sweat, his chest rising and falling with frantic breaths, his eyes distant as if staring into a place I can't follow. Sometimes, I find him sitting on the edge of the bed, his head buried in his hands, wrestling with demons he doesn't talk about.

Watching the man who's always been my anchor crumble before me is like a slow, silent heartbreak. I want to help him, to pull him from the storm he's caught in, but some nights, I feel just as lost as he is. The cracks in his armor terrify me, leaving me questioning how to hold us both together.

I won't pretend I'm untouched by it all. The same fears that haunt him take root in me, playing on an endless loop when I close my eyes. The memory of those gunshots—the sheer terror of almost losing him—crawls into my thoughts at the worst times. Even now, Sal's shadow hovers in the background, a constant reminder that our peace could shatter at any moment. Every time Danté or I step outside the house, my chest tightens with anxiety. A routine trip to the doctor feels like tempting fate, even with a security team escorting us.

Between caring for Skylar and supporting Danté, I often feel like I'm walking a tightrope. I try to keep things steady, soothing our daughter, pretending everything is normal, while quietly shielding Danté from the weight of my own worries. Yet the strain shows. I see it in the way I move through the day—mechanical, exhausted, bracing myself for the next challenge.

Then there are times when his PTSD leaves me walking on eggshells. Loud noises are the worst. A door slamming or Skylar's sudden wail is enough to make Danté flinch, his body stiffening to a danger that isn't there. I've learned to soften my presence around him, keeping my voice gentle, my movements slow, giving him space to recover. But inside, I ache for the reassurance he used to give so freely.

Late at night, when the house is still and Skylar is finally asleep, I cry quietly in the nursery. I cry for the man I love, for the weight we're carrying, and for the fear that we won't come out of this the same. I worry about Skylar, too—what she might sense, how the tension might affect her. The thought of her innocent world being touched by the darkness that surrounds us makes my heart ache.

And yet, even in the hardest moments, there are flickers of hope. Danté, despite his struggles, still finds ways to show his love. His hand will reach for mine, squeezing gently, as if grounding himself through our connection. Sometimes, he'll pull me close, his breath warm against my ear as he whispers, "I love you. You're doing so much for us. I'm proud of you."

When he cradles Skylar in his arms, his frustration seems to melt away. His strong hands—hands that have carried both me and our child through danger—now hold her with a tenderness that brings tears to my eyes. His dimples deepen when she coos, his expression softening as he whispers promises of protection in a voice meant only for her. And when her tiny hand wraps around his finger, I see the bond between them deepen. A quiet miracle in the midst of the storm.