Page 82 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

Ivy finishes breakfast, then I guide her into her shoes and jacket while she chatters about pancakes and strawberries. Nathan washes dishes without being asked, sleeves rolled, hands moving with the same competence he uses in a hospital, and the domestic normalcy of it makes my chest feel tight.

When the bus arrives, Ivy grabs her backpack and runs toward the door, then she stops and looks back at Nathan as if she’s remembering something important.

Nathan steps into the hallway, careful, and he holds himself at a respectful distance. “I’ll walk you,” he says, then he looks at me for confirmation.

I nod once.

We go outside together, and the morning air feels cool against my face. Ivy trots ahead then slows so Nathan can match her pace. He doesn’t take her hand without permission. He simply walks beside her and lets her chatter.

At the bus stop, Ivy swings her backpack strap and looks up at him again, then her voice drops into something quieter. “Are you here to be my dad?”

My breath catches, and I look away toward the street on instinct, giving them a sliver of privacy without abandoning the moment.

Nathan’s voice stays low, and I can’t hear every word, yet I hear enough.

“I’m here,” he calmly says.

The bus doors fold open and Ivy climbs the steps, then she turns and waves at both of us with a grin that looks like it belongs on a postcard. The doors close, the bus pulls away, and the street settles back into quiet.

Nathan watches the bus until it turns the corner, then he turns back toward me with a careful expression.

I lean against the building wall and fold my arms, trying to look composed. “What did you say?”

Nathan steps closer, then stops at a polite distance, as if he’s still honoring the boundaries I set last night. “I told her I’m here to help and support her mommy,” he says. “I told her we’re going to see where things go from there.”

I stare at him. He didn’t claim her, lie, or promise her a fantasy.

He gave her something real. I nod slowly. My eyes sting again, and I hate myself for being this easy to move. “Thank you,” I say, and my voice comes out quiet.

Nathan’s gaze holds mine. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m doing what I should’ve done a long time ago.”

I swallow, then gesture toward the door. “Come back in. I need to finish my coffee.”

Nathan follows me inside, and he moves through my apartment like he’s memorizing it without touching anything he hasn’t earned. He sits at the kitchen table again while I refill my mug, and the quiet between us feels different now.

Nathan rubs a hand over the back of his neck, then he looks at me with that focused attention that makes it hard to hide. “Do you want to talk?”

I lift a brow. “About what?”

Nathan’s voice stays calm, and his eyes don’t flinch away. “About what made you run.”

My fingers curl around the coffee mug like it’s an anchor. I look at him across the table and feel the old fear stirring, the one that still knows names and threats and photographs.

Nathan keeps his hands on the table, open, still. “You don’t have to answer right now,” he adds. “You can tell me to wait.”

I stare at him and hear Ivy’s voice in my head, cheerful and trusting, and I feel the weight of six years pressing against my ribs.

I set my mug down carefully then meet his gaze. “Alright,” I say quietly. “You want the truth?”

Nathan’s eyes glint, and his voice drops. “Yes. I do.”

18

ATHENA

Coffee goes cold on the table, and I notice it only when I lift the mug and taste that flat, stale bitterness that always shows up when you forget your own hands exist.

Nathan sits across from me with his sleeves still rolled, his plate already cleared, his posture steady, and his attention locked on me like he’s waiting for the first real sentence. He isn’t fidgeting, he isn’t filling space with charm, and it makes the silence feel honest.