You put her down for the night and your skin is still ringing with the day. Small hands. A mouth. A weight against you for hours on end. He reaches for your shoulder and you flinch like he's a stranger. You love him. You still cannot stand one more hand on you tonight.
There is a sentence worth saying out loud, because it is true. It's not you, it's me. Not as an apology. As physiology. A body that has given itself to another person's needs all day has a limit, and that limit fills before the day is over. This is not about him. It is not about desire dying. It is a nervous system running a deficit, and touch, any touch, reads as one more withdrawal it cannot currently afford.
Why this is not a relationship pattern
The instinct is to read this as proof something has gone wrong between you. It hasn't. A newborn is not a small addition to your day, she is the whole architecture of it, and your body has been on duty since the last time it slept properly. Being touched out is what a body does when it has already given everything it has to someone else first. It is common, and it moves, and it has nothing to do with how much you want him.
The reach that actually works here
What he can offer right now is not more touch. It is touch with an edge: a start and a clear end, so no part of you has to brace for it becoming something bigger. And what you can offer yourself is a way back into your own body that asks nothing of anyone. Touch Base®: thumb pressed to forefinger, moved slow, like melted chocolate, no rushing. Say to yourself, I am safe right now. Keep going for two minutes, on your own, whenever the day allows it. It rebuilds your own relationship with touch before it has to be shared with anyone else again.
This capacity refills, on its own timeline. Respecting that timeline is not indulgence. It is what lets it refill faster.