Page 97 of Unravelling: Aria & Crispin
"Then I'll keep reading," he whispered, awe threading through his tone.
Every evening after that, he brought a different book. He'd ask, always, before touching her-never assuming. She grew used to the warm weight of his palm, the low murmur of his voice, the way he sometimes paused to press a kiss to the curve of her stomach when he thought she wasn't paying attention. Sometimes, when she wore pyjamas, he would sneak a feel of her bare skin with his warm hand.
And though she still wasn't ready to say the words he so clearly ached to hear, she let him fall in love with the baby in real time.
Some nights, when he thought she had dozed off, he'd sit by her side, one hand resting over her belly, and whisper, "It's your daddy. I'm here."
Lule called often. Her voice came bright and brash over the speaker, peppered with sarcastic wisdom and concern. Crispin would always greet her respectfully, though never without wincing at her teasing.
He called his mother once. Aria was sitting in her usual chair, completing a sunny yellow quilt for a baby boy.
"Hello, Mom."
A pause.
"No. I'm fine. Please don't...don't do that thing where you make it about you."
Another pause.
"I didn't say that. I'm just...tired."
His voice was flat, distant. He hung up with a sigh.
Later that week, Aria told him, quietly, "You should tell Alice."
He looked up sharply.
"You said she'd be thrilled," she added.
He swallowed and nodded. And as if to pre-empt her, in case she changed her mind, he rang Alice at once. When she picked up and Crispin proudly conveyed the news, she shrieked so loudly, Aria heard it.
"Are you serious? I'm going to be an auntie? You colossal idiot, why didn't you tell me sooner?!"
She smiled faintly at the sound.
But that smile faded when she caught part of a later call. Crispin's voice was low, answering Dorian.
Her expression twisted like she'd smelled something unpleasant. She scowled and walked out of the room.
Crispin watched her leave, then apologised before hanging up.
That evening, he watched her trace long sweeping lines of embroidery across a deep navy quilt.
"What's this one for?"
She paused, thread in hand. "It's a doggy quilt," she said. "For a disabled woman. She had to put her golden retriever down. He was sixteen. Slept beside her bed every night for over a decade."
Crispin swallowed. "You're making it for her?"
Aria nodded. "She sent me photos. He had a little white patch over one eye. I'm sewing it in."
He looked at her, chest full. "I'm so proud of you," he said.
She glanced at him and then back at her needle. Her fingers didn't stop moving. "Don't say that unless you mean it."
"I do. And I think you know that."
She didn't reply, but later that night, when she passed him his cup of tea, she let her fingers linger for half a second longer than necessary.
