Page 47

Padding down the hallway in socked feet, I stop at the edge of the living room and just… watch.

Theo’s cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, a giant bowl of cereal balanced between his knees. Milk sloshes dangerously close to the edge every time he leans forward to point at the TV. Cartoons flash across the screen—some brightly colored mess of superheroes and explosions—and Simon’s on the couch behind him, one arm draped over the back, the other holding his own mug of coffee. He’s commentating like it’s a serious sports broadcast.

“No, no, see, he’s about to use the wrong power,” Simon says, leaning forward. “Watch. He always does this.”

Theo gasps dramatically as the character on screen makes exactly that mistake. “Dad, he’s so dumb!”

Simon chuckles, low and warm. “Told you. Rookie mistake.”

It looks so ordinary. So stupidly, painfully normal. Theo’s curls are still sleep-mussed, Simon’s wearing the same gray sweatpants from last night, and the morning light makes everything feel softer than it has any right to. For a long moment I just stand there, letting it wash over me—the easy rhythm of their voices, the way Theo keeps scooting backward until his back bumps Simon’s shins, the way Simon absently reaches down to ruffle his hair without even looking.

My mind drifts before I can stop it. What if this was every morning? What if I walked out to this instead of an empty apartment and a rushed scramble to daycare? Simon here, barefoot and half-asleep, trading cartoon opinions with our son. Theo growing up with both of us under the same roof. Maybe another baby one day—smaller hands, another crib in the hallway. A little girl this time, maybe, with Simon’s eyes and my stubborn chin. Family dinners that didn’t feel like borrowed time. Simon’s things mixed with mine in the bathroom. His laugh in the kitchen. His body warm beside me at night instead of an empty space where I used to pretend he still was.

The fantasy is so vivid it aches.

I must make some small sound, because Simon glances over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and a little rough from sleep. “Hope you don’t mind I let him eat in here.”

I shake my head, still half-lost in the haze of the fantasy I’d let myself sink into. My gaze drops to Theo, who twists around on the floor with a lopsided, milk-mustached grin.

“Daddy gave me me’cine,” he informs me, wincing at the memory of the taste.

Simon sets his coffee mug on the side table and rises, unfolding from the couch in one smooth movement. He steps closer—closer than he needs to—and the air between us seems to thicken. I can smell the faint trace of his soap, the coffee on his breath, the warm, familiar scent of him that used to cling to my sheets for days after he left. My core tightens on instinct, a sharp, involuntary pulse of heat that makes me press my thighs together under the oversized T-shirt I slept in.

“I found some Tylenol above the sink,” he murmurs, eyes searching mine. “He was complaining his wrist was hurting again. Figured it was better than letting him tough it out.”

I nod, but my thoughts are scattered. He’s standing right in front of me now, close enough that I could reach out and touch the soft cotton of his shirt if I wanted. Close enough to remind me how dangerous this borrowed domesticity is—how easily my body still reacts to him like no time has passed at all.

Theo has already turned back to the TV, happily shoveling another spoonful of cereal into his mouth like he hasn’t just handed his father another piece of my heart.

I swallow, trying to steady my voice. “Thanks. I… didn’t even hear him wake up.”

Simon’s mouth tilts in a small, almost shy smile. “You needed the sleep. We were fine.”

The words are simple, but they land somewhere deep. For a second I let myself imagine what it would be like if this really was our life—Simon handling the small hurts, the morning cartoons, the easy rhythm of parenting without the constant ache of doing it alone. The daydream from earlier flickers back to life, brighter and more painful now that he’s standing so close I can feel the warmth radiating off his skin.

I clear my throat and take a small step back, needing the distance before I do something reckless like lean into him.

“Thanks. I, uh… it was nice to get a little more sleep.”

Simon nods, but his brow furrows as he studies my face, like he can see straight through the polite deflection. “Course. I was thinking—if you needed some more rest or to get anything done—I could take him for a couple hours.”

I glance over at Theo, who’s completely absorbed in the cartoon again, spoon clinking against the bowl. The offer hangs between us, tempting and dangerous all at once. A few hours to myself sounds like heaven. I could knock out that mountain of laundry by the couch, maybe even make a dent in the stack of papers I’ve been avoiding grading. But my brain refuses to cooperate with logic. Instead it’s cataloging every detail of the man standing in front of me—the faint rasp of stubble along his jaw, the way his T-shirt stretches just tight enough across his chest to hint at the muscle beneath, and God help me, the way those same gray sweatpants still hang low on his hips like they were designed to test my self-control. I remember all too well how little they hide when he’s relaxed… or not. Especially on a man as generously built as Simon.

Heat creeps up my neck. I force my eyes back to Theo before they betray me by drifting lower.

“Yeah,” I admit, voice softer than I mean it to be. “A couple hours could be nice.”

Simon’s expression shifts—something like quiet relief mixed with hope—and it only makes the ache in my chest sharper. For one reckless second I let the fantasy from earlier bloom again: this being our everyday. Simon offering to take Theo so I can breathe. Simon’s things scattered around my living room. Simon’s body in my bed at night instead of just in my head. A little girl with his eyes someday, maybe, toddling after her big brother.

I swallow hard and look away, already knowing I’m going to regret how much I still want that life.

“Thanks,” I say again, quieter this time. “That would actually be… really helpful.”

***

The grading takes longer than it should—my pen keeps drifting, mind wandering—but I get through half the stack before the laundry pulls me away. I fold what’s in the dryer, start a new load, and carry the warm stack into the living room. Theo’s tiny shirts go on top of the growing pile on the coffee table, followed by his socks, a pair of my leggings, and one of Simon’s old hoodies I accidentally kept when we split. When the last shirt is smoothed flat, I sink onto the couch with a sigh that comes from somewhere deeper than my lungs.