you pulled up in your car, turning off the engine, the click sounding too loud in the quiet lot. you got out, rounded the car, and lifted your baby girl from her seat. the air felt wrong, too still, like the whole place was holding its breath alongside you. she stirred against your chest, little fingers curling into your jacket, her cheek warm and slack from the nap she’d just woken from. this was routine now. it still hurt every time.

daveed’s truck was already there. you saw him step out, shutting the door carefully, like even the sound might startle something fragile. when he reached you, he took your daughter from your arms with practiced gentleness, like she was sacred. like she was the one thing in his life he was determined not to break. you exhaled without meaning to.

“hi hon.” he said softly, almost absentmindedly, eyes already fixed on her face. the word settled between you, heavy and familiar, a ghost of who you used to be together. you didn’t correct him. you didn’t have the energy.

it was hard not to cave sometimes. not to ask him to come home. he had been a good partner— until things got messy, until the nights got longer and the explanations thinner. your mind replayed it all on a loop: the late rehearsals, the distance, the rumors that crept in through group chats and timelines, the pictures that surfaced when you were already hurting. he swore he didn’t cheat. swore it like a prayer. part of you wanted to believe him so badly it made your chest ache, but wanting didn’t make it true. the not knowing was worse than any confession. it lived in you like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing.

he was a good dad, too. maybe the best part of him. that almost made it unbearable. he bounced her lightly, brushing his thumb over her tiny curls, whispering to her in that low, careful voice that used to belong to you alone. it pulled you back to the present.

“she got everything?” he asked, glancing at the bag. “medicine? the extra socks?” his tone was gentle, precise, like he was afraid one wrong move might undo everything.

“yeah,” you said quietly. “she does.” you nodded toward the passenger seat. “monday.”

he nodded back. no hesitation. no questions. no attempt to linger. daveed never pushed, never begged, never tried to cross the line you’d drawn after the breakup. sometimes that hurt more than if he had. you wished he’d fought you, wished he’d called in the middle of the night, wished he’d told you he couldn’t live without you. but you had ended it. your lack of trust had been enough for him to step back and stay there.

your daughter reached for you, small hands opening and closing, and you leaned in to kiss her forehead, breathing her in like you wouldn’t see her for years instead of days. daveed watched, something soft and wrecked flickering across his face before he smoothed it away.

you steppd back. he pulled her closer. two people standing on opposite sides of the same broken thing, learning how to share the one heart that mattered most.

“you, uh,” he started, then stopped. swallowed. “you look… good.” good wasn’t what he meant. he wanted to say beautiful. breathtaking. home. but this was the present. and the present had rules neither of you dared to break.