Page 49 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

“Thank you,” I say quietly. He offers his arm without comment, the gesture old-fashioned and easy. I take it automatically, letting him guide me out to his car.

The drive to the restaurant is calm. Nathan talks lightly about a difficult surgery from earlier in the week and asks about my patients, and I’m grateful he never asks why I left my shift early. I answer when appropriate, but most of my attention stays fixed on the passing city lights outside the window.

My hands rest folded in my lap. My head is full of the word pregnant. Nathan glances at me once while we stop at a light. “You’re quiet tonight.”

I force a small smile. “Long day.”

He studies me for a moment like he knows that answer isn’t the whole truth. His hand shifts on the steering wheel and his gaze flicks back to the road with a level calm that makes me feel seen anyway. The streetlight changes and we move forward, the car rolling smoothly while my thoughts pile up faster than my mouth can keep up.

I keep my hands folded in my lap and focus on breathing through my nose. My dress feels fine. My skin feels wrong. My head keeps replaying one word, and I’m trying not to let it crawl onto my face.

Nathan turns into the restaurant lot and parks with the same careful control he brings to everything else. He gets out first, walks around, and opens my door. I take his hand as I step down, and the contact lands warm and steady in a way that almost breaks me.

Inside, the host recognizes him. We’re led past a low bar and a row of tables, then into a quieter corner where the lighting is soft and the chairs are comfortable enough to encourage people to stay.

Nathan pulls my chair out and waits until I’m seated before sitting across from me. He sets his phone face down beside his glass and folds his napkin with neat, economical movements.

“You’re still quiet,” he says, voice low enough that the neighboring tables can’t steal it. He places his hand on my thigh and rubs it over the fabric of my dress, parting his beautiful mouth in a soft, warm smile. “Talk to me.”

I glance at the menu without reading it then set it down to meet his gaze. “I’m thinking.”

His mouth curves slightly. “That usually means trouble.”

I try to smile. It comes out thin.

The waiter arrives with water and a brief explanation of specials. Nathan orders without fuss. I order without caring what I picked. The moment the waiter leaves, silence settles again, and it feels heavier without the distraction.

Nathan watches me with that focused surgeon attention, the kind that notices small changes and refuses to let them pass as nothing.

“Talk to me,” he says.

My fingers slide around the base of my water glass. The cold steadies me for half a second, and then it doesn’t. “I saw Nate today.”

Nathan’s expression shifts. Not shock. Not surprise. Just a tightening behind his eyes, and his posture goes more still. “Did he bother you?”

“He tried.”

Nathan’s gaze holds mine. “Tell me what he said.”

I could. I should. The threats sit in my throat, sharp and ugly. I picture Nate with that smug certainty that he can ruin anyone he chooses.

I don’t give Nathan any of that yet. I take the coward’s route and reach for a safer question, even though it isn’t safe at all.

“What do you think about being a dad,” I ask, and my voice comes out too careful.

Nathan doesn’t answer right away.

His eyes stay on mine then drift to the table. He picks up his glass and takes a slow sip, then sets it down with controlled precision. His fingers rest beside it, relaxed, but his attention feels harder now.

“That’s an odd dinner topic,” he says.

“I’m asking,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light. “Not interviewing you for a magazine.”

Nathan lets out a short breath that isn’t a laugh. “Do you want the polite answer,” he asks, “or the real one?”

My chest tightens. “The real one.”

He studies me for another beat, then his voice drops and the warmth disappears from it. “I think kids get used as weapons.”