Page 81 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

Ivy lights up like he just performed magic. “Strawberries,” she says, reverent.

Nathan glances at her and keeps his hands busy. “Wash hands,” he says calmly.

Ivy hesitates, then she obeys instantly, and I stare at both of them like my brain can’t compute the cooperation.

Nathan washes his hands too, then he reaches for a bowl and starts moving with competent ease. He doesn’t need to ask where everything is for long. He finds the whisk, he finds the pan, he turns on the stove and adjusts the heat with a surgeon’s precision that makes me want to mock him, then he catches my eye and his mouth twitches.

“Don’t start,” he says quietly.

I lift a brow. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

Ivy climbs onto a stool at the counter and watches him work like he’s a cooking show. Nathan cracks eggs cleanly, then mixes batter with practiced motion, then slices strawberries while Ivy narrates her opinions on fruit.

“Strawberry is best,” she informs him.

Nathan nods. “Strong stance,” he replies, and Ivy grins.

I lean against the doorway and watch the scene, then I feel something shift in my chest that catches me off guard. Nathan looks comfortable in my kitchen, and Ivy looks comfortable watching him, and the familiarity of it makes my throat tighten.

This is what I built without him. This is also what I wanted, on the days I let myself want it.

Nathan flips the first pancake with easy confidence, then he slides it onto a plate and cuts it into smaller pieces without being asked. He sets the plate in front of Ivy, adds strawberries on top, then he drizzles a small amount of syrup with careful restraint.

Ivy takes one bite and her eyes widen.

“Mom,” she says with her mouth full. “This is good.”

I walk over and set Ivy’s lunch bag beside her, then I pour myself coffee and take a small sip that tastes like routine.

Nathan sets a second plate down in front of me, then he pauses like he’s waiting for permission to occupy space beside us.

I gesture toward the chair across from Ivy. “Sit,” I say.

Nathan sits.

He eats slowly, watching Ivy more than he watches his plate, and Ivy keeps talking like she’s decided he’s allowed to exist. She asks him what his favorite animal is, if he likes pizza, if he knows how to draw a rabbit.

Nathan answers each one without condescension, and he doesn’t try to charm her with big promises. He stays in the lane of simple, steady presence, and the restraint makes my chest ache.

At one point Ivy drops her fork, and Nathan reaches down to pick it up automatically, washes it, then holds it out to her without making a big deal of it.

“Thank you,” Ivy says, with a smile that makes my heart break and sing at the same time.

“You’re welcome,” Nathan replies.

Ivy studies him for a beat. “You have the same eyes as me.”

My hand stills on my coffee mug. Nathan’s gaze moves to me, then back to Ivy, and his voice stays calm. “You noticed.”

Ivy nods, serious. “Mom says my daddy has eyes like mine.”

Nathan’s hands rest on the table, and his voice stays gentle. “Your mom is smart.”

Ivy brightens. “Yes,” she says, pleased, then she takes another bite like she solved something.

The clock moves too fast after that.