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Beyond the balcony, the sea is calm and the horizon is edged with a faint, wavering line of pink-tinged orange. The sun is rising, but it’s in no hurry. As Rey’s eyes adjust, she wills it to continue taking its time.
She dimly remembers the feel of the mattress sinking and rising as Ben rose a few minutes ago, and the scuff of his bare feet on the cool floor, and, down the hall, the soft sounds of Nova stirring in her crib. She is nearly seven months old. Their routines have adjusted; they have new habits. Rey assumes he has just gone to check on her. They take turns, and she can’t recall whose it is, but sometimes—often—he goes regardless before she can offer. So she lets her eyes fall shut, and she listens for more signs of the waking world.
Ben returns, but not to bed. Instead, he slides the curtains aside and brings Nova out onto the balcony. Rey cracks her eyes open. Since he’s come and gone, more light has colored the sky, and he’s a tall hazy silhouette against the warming gray. A salt breeze ruffles his hair, which must already have been a mess, and his profile is sharp as he turns and looks down at the bundle in his arms. He shifts it to his chest, and she catches sight of the tiny face as it settles against his shoulder—eyes softly shut, a whorl of dark wavy hair, a sweet bowed mouth, and the fattest cheeks Rey has ever seen.
And there it is, the thing she’s seen him do so many times now she’s almost stopped noticing: his right hand goes to the back of Nova’s head, his fingers spread gently over her scalp, his thumb rests behind the shell of her ear. He does it most when she fusses or cries, even if she only needs to be fed or changed. To anyone else, it might seem sensible, a way to support her sleeping body or comfort her wordless distress. An idle affectionate touch.
But it’s not just that.
Half by accident, Rey attunes to the shift in his concentration, perceives the softening of his focus as it washes over that bright, perfect being they’ve made. Head bent as if in prayer, posture primed, his eyes fall shut and his mouth tightens and he listens.
The last time was a few days ago. She was entering a set of coordinates into a datapad, a distant star system materializing in miniature before her eyes, and she saw him do the same thing. In hindsight, she’d probably sounded insensitive, teasing him, asking what it was about their infant’s lovely hair that fascinated him so much—Checking on your competition? He issued a dry chuckle, mouth curved, and said nothing. A few moments later he was pointing out some miscalculation in her mapping.
But she thinks she gets it now. She’s had time to consider. She’s had time to feel it, what Ben is doing—what he’s searching for, what he’s afraid to find—just like she feels it now. She won’t ask him again. If he wants to tell her, he will. But she hopes the day comes when that fear leaves him and he doesn’t need to do it at all.
He stays out there a few minutes longer, and her thoughts are elsewhere when he joins her in bed again. Nova is on her back between them, deeply asleep. Rey draws a hand over her forehead and smooths down a stubborn curl. When it bounces right back to where it had been, Ben mirrors her attempt to much the same effect. Their fingers brush, though, and their hands settle near each other on the sheet above the crown of their daughter’s head.
“Okay?” Rey asks, yawning. She should get up soon; she hates to waste a morning, and this looks like a fine one.
“Yeah.” Ben closes his eyes and relaxes. “She’s okay.”