Rebirth: Love me Again

[COLE]

Cole took a slow breath. He had rehearsed hundreds of things to say if he ever saw her again—but now, with her standing there, radiant and real, and their child in her arms, all of it evaporated.

"You . . . you're even more beautiful now," he said quietly, a tremor in his voice he hadn't expected. "I'm sorry. The pregnancy . . . the birth . . . I missed everything. I should have stayed with you."

His voice cracked despite himself.

Eve shook her head slowly, her eyes never leaving Bean's face as she cradled him protectively. Her voice, soft and reflective, carried the weight of so many untold stories and silent nights.

"I've been thinking . . . and I realized maybe it's not just about who should apologize first," she said. "I have my own weaknesses . . . my fears, my insecurities. I let them win. I pushed you away because I was afraid—afraid of being hurt again, of repeating old patterns. It wasn't your fault, Cole. You didn't deserve that."

Cole listened, his chest tightening. The woman in front of him wasn't just Eve, the girl he once loved—she was a mother now. Stronger. Braver. But still carrying the same soft heart that had always drawn him in.

"I was so scared," she continued. "So scared that I would be hurt again, or that loving you again would destroy me a second time. So I shut you out. I chose to survive instead of risking everything . . . again."

She paused, then smiled faintly, eyes misting.

"But then he came," she whispered, looking down at their son. "Bean. He made every heartache worth it. He gave me courage. He gave me a reason to believe in something pure. He changed me . . . and I hope it's for the better."

Cole stood motionless, each word sinking into his bones like rain falling on drought-stricken earth. His throat felt like it was lined with glass, each breath jagged and raw.

"Then . . ." He swallowed, unsure if the words would come out right. "Will you . . . will you take me back?"

The room suddenly felt colder. His question hung in the air like a challenge and a prayer.

The fire crackled softly in the background, mocking the silence between them.

Eve looked at him carefully, her brows gently knitting together.

"If it were just me," she said, her voice quiet, "I don't think I could. I've loved you, Cole. More than I probably should have. And when I did, it destroyed me. I don't think I can love like that again . . . not recklessly. Not without fear."

Cole's heart sank.

"I've built a life," she continued. "A life I've come to love, even without you. My family, my routines, my mornings with Bean. I was . . . content. Maybe not whole, but content."

He nodded faintly, the pain behind his eyes threatening to spill.

"But," she said, pausing as her gaze shifted back to their child, "then I realized something. When Bean was born, I understood that I would do anything for him. Even things I thought I couldn't. Even letting you back in—so he can have his father. So we could . . . maybe be a family. For him."

The love she felt for Cole had never truly left her—it had only been buried beneath layers of fear, heartbreak, and self-preservation. She had tried to forget, convinced that it was safer that way.

But standing there now, with their son nestled safely in her arms and Cole looking at them like they were his whole world, she realized something.

She wasn't afraid anymore.

With her son by her side—this beautiful, giggling little miracle who had given her courage when she had none—everything suddenly felt possible again.

Maybe love didn't have to hurt this time. Maybe, just maybe, it could heal.

A breath hitched in Cole's throat. His heart leapt.

"Really?" he said, barely able to believe her words.

Eve chuckled softly. "Not so fast."

He blinked. "Wait—what?"

"I said maybe," she grinned. "And definitely not right now. Romance isn't on the menu. Right now, my priority is Bean. He's the center of my universe."

Cole nodded so fast it almost made her laugh again. "Of course. Absolutely. Bean first. A hundred percent."

She tilted her head, amused. "You're very agreeable today."

"I'm desperate," Cole said without shame, flashing a crooked smile. "You have no idea how much I missed you—both of you."

Eve softened, her gaze drifting again to her child. "He looks like you, you know. Has your pout when he doesn't get his milk right away. Your stubborn eyes."

"Poor kid," Cole said with a low laugh, the sound more breath than voice. "He's doomed."

Eve smirked but said nothing, then turned toward him, her voice gentler now.

"Do you . . . want to hold him?"

The words stunned Cole more than any declaration.

"Are you sure?"

"I wouldn't ask if I wasn't," she said and slowly brought Bean closer to him.

Cole's arms moved stiffly at first, like a soldier unsure how to disarm a ticking bomb.

He cursed himself inwardly for not preparing for this—he could command boardrooms and break billion-dollar deals but had never studied how to hold a baby.

But the moment Bean's tiny body settled into his arms, everything shifted.

It was like his body remembered something his mind had never learned. Bean fit perfectly against his chest, his warmth grounding, anchoring Cole in the moment. His arms adjusted instinctively, careful but secure, and he cradled his son as if he had done it a hundred times before.

Bean stirred, and then—he chuckled. A small, airy laugh that made Cole's heart lurch. Then those tiny hands reached up, blindly groping toward his father's face, patting his cheeks with a kind of innocence only a baby could have.

Cole's breath broke as a tear slipped down his cheek. Then another. And another.

He leaned forward and gently kissed Bean's forehead.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice shaking. "I'm so sorry. I regret every moment I wasn't there. When your mom was pregnant, during her labor . . . your first breath, your first smile—I missed everything. And I hate that I wasn't by her side."