Page 79 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

Nathan’s attention shifts toward the hallway, and his expression turns alert in the same way it does in a hospital when a monitor changes. He looks back at me quickly, then he lowers his voice. “Do you want me to leave now? I can go.”

I drag a hand through my hair and stare at the wall for a second, then I turn back to him and force myself to speak like an adult instead of a woman running on fear.

“I want you out of her sight until I decide what we’re doing,” I say. “But I also don’t want you gone again.”

Nathan’s mouth tightens at that, and he nods once, slow. “Tell me what you want.”

I exhale through my nose, then I steady myself with a small nod. “Breakfast,” I say. “You can show up for breakfast, and you can meet her in daylight, when she’s awake and stable and not scared.”

Nathan goes still, then his eyes soften in a way that makes my throat tighten again. “You’re sure?”

“No,” I reply with a little shrug. “I’m choosing it anyway.”

He holds my gaze, and gratitude moves across his face like he’s trying not to show it too openly. He looks like a man who has been starving quietly, then someone put food in front of him and told him he could take one bite.

“Thank you,” he says, voice low.

I lift a finger in warning. “Don’t thank me like I’m doing you a favor. This is for her.”

Nathan nods again. “I know. That’s why it matters.”

I stare at him, and my eyes sting again, so I look away fast and adjust the sheet like I’m busy. “What time?”

“Whatever works for you,” he says. “I’ll be here when you tell me to be here.”

I glance at the clock, then I picture Ivy’s morning routine, the bus schedule, the way she needs time to eat or she melts down in her shoes. “Seven,” I decide. “No later.”

“I’ll be here at seven,” he says, then he pauses and adds, “If you change your mind, you text me.”

I look back at him. “You’re leaving now?”

Nathan’s mouth curves slightly. “I’m leaving now,” he agrees. “I’m not staying and turning this into something she feels through the walls.”

The practicality of that makes my chest ache. He shifts off the bed and moves quietly, collecting his clothes without making a show of it. He dresses with the same efficient competence he brings to everything else, then he turns back toward me and hesitates near the doorway.

“You should sleep,” he says.

I roll my eyes at him. “That’s optimistic.”

His mouth twitches. “Try,” he replies, then his expression turns serious again.

There’s nothing more I have left to say, so I settle for a nod. Nathan holds my gaze for a beat, then he nods as if he believes me and steps out. The door clicks softly behind him, and I’m left sitting in my bed with the sheet twisted around my waist and my mind spinning.

Naturally, I don’t sleep much, or at all.

I check on Ivy twice without waking her, then I lie back down and stare at the ceiling until the dark shifts into that gray pre-morning light. My body keeps replaying Nathan’s hands on my waist, his voice against my hair, his promise that I don’t have to decide yet.

It sounds easy when a man says it.

It’s not easy when you’re the one who has to trust it.

At 6:15 a.m., Ivy’s door creaks open and she pads into the hallway like a tiny ghost. She pauses, listening, then she pushes into my room and climbs into my bed with a sigh that sounds older than six. “Morning,” she murmurs, face pressed into my shoulder.

“Morning, baby,” I whisper, wrapping an arm around her.

She shifts, then tilts her head up and blinks at me with those storm-gray eyes that always make my chest do something tight and strange.

“Mom,” she says, voice quiet. “Was that man bad?”