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She studies me for a long moment. I can practically see the war happening behind her eyes—pride and independence pushing back against the offer, probably still pissed off about the whole Veronica thing and wanting to tell me to fuck off.

“And…” My throat tightens around the next part. “I’d like to stay the night, with the head wound and everything. I want to stay close to him.”

And you.

The words sit heavy behind my ribs, unsaid.

Blaire keeps looking at me, her expression unreadable. For a second I think she’s going to tell me no. Then she exhales, soft and tired, and nods once. “Okay.”

I reach down and carefully lift Theo from her arms. He stays limp, his head dropping onto my shoulder, warm and heavy. Blaire’s fingers linger on his back a second longer than they need to, and when she pulls away, her knuckles brush the back of my hand.

Just long enough to make my pulse stumble.

***

Theo goes into his car seat without a twitch, head lolled to the side, mouth slack. The kid’s always slept like the dead. I tighten the straps, brush a curl off his forehead, and ease the door shut.

Blaire climbs into the passenger seat and immediately snorts.

My floorboard looks like a Red Bull graveyard. Cans everywhere. Some from this morning, some from last year. Hard to tell the difference.

“Still single handedly keeping them in business,” she says, buckling in.

“Someone has to.”

She smirks. “Explains why Theo’s so hyper all the time. Your sperm must’ve been, like, eighty percent Red Bull.”

My cock reacts before I can stop it—giving a quick twitch in my sweatpants, like I’m eighteen again and stupid over her.

Get a grip, Simon.

I shift in my seat and force a laugh. “You knew about my addiction before sleeping with me.”

She hums, noncommittal, and leans her head against the window. The streetlights slide over her profile in slow pulses—sharp cheekbone, the tired smudge of mascara beneath her lashes, freckles dotting her nose like they used to when she’d fall asleep in my passenger seat after a late shift. For just a second, it feels like we’re twenty again and I’m driving her home after a date that went too long, her hand resting on my thigh, the windows cracked to let in the summer air. Back then the silence between us had always been easy. Now it’s thick with everything I never said. Back then she saw things in me I was too scared to look at myself. It took me years to understand what she saw—and even longer to be ready to admit I ran because I was terrified I’d never live up to her expectations of me.

I tighten my grip on the wheel as the memory dissolves, the apology sitting like gravel in my throat.

“Blaire?”

She hums, half-asleep.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” she murmurs.

I keep my eyes on the road.

For running. For leaving her alone with a baby. For loving her the way I did and still choosing fear over her. For all of it.

But I only manage, “For a lot.”

The car goes quiet again.

Then she exhales and rests her temple against the glass again. “You don’t need to apologize, Simon.”

Her voice is gentle, but it lands like a door closing anyway. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t want to hear what I have to say, because it won’t change how she feels towards me.

I’m too late.