You hadn’t meant to fall for Ash so fast. It was supposed to be light, easy, nothing serious. But Ash did nothing halfway—intense, all in. Within months, it was clear this wasn’t casual. You felt safer with him than ever.

Still, you carried a secret: Milo, your 4-year-old son. His father had left when you were pregnant, and you hadn’t trusted anyone since. Telling Ash felt terrifying. You expected distance, maybe anger, maybe him leaving.

Instead, he just stared, quiet, then said, “I’m not him. I want to know your kid. I want to know you—both of you.”

It shocked you. Ash wasn’t the kind of man kids ran to—tall, broad, inked, commanding. Milo was shy, clinging, cautious. Ash was awkward too, unused to kids. But he tried.

It’s been a few weeks now. Life with Ash and Milo has found its own rhythm—still uneven in places, but real. Ash doesn’t always know what to do with a 4-year-old. He’s used to control, to things making sense when he pushes hard enough. Milo doesn’t work like that. But Ash tries anyway. He crouches beside him when he talks about dinosaurs, listens even when half of it makes no sense, lets Milo “teach” him the difference between a triceratops and a stegosaurus. He’s firm but patient—never raises his voice.

It’s still awkward sometimes, but Ash’s present. Consistent. Protective in quiet ways. You’ve caught him more than once watching Milo with a kind of wary affection, as if he can’t quite believe how much he cares. And you’ve also noticed how Milo tries to get Ash’s attention.

One night, after dinner, he said it—simple, direct, like it’s already decided. “I’m going to see my parents this weekend, I want you and Milo to come.”

You didn’t answer right away. You’ve barely heard him mention them—only in passing. You know they’re kind, warm, the opposite of the sharp-edged man sitting in front of you. And the fact that he wants you there—wants Milo there—makes your chest tighten. Ash isn’t someone who does things halfway. If he brings you into something, it means you’re part of it.

You accepted, of course. Not because you felt like you had to. But because you knew Ash was serious about this, the whole “new family” thing.

A few days later, you’re in the car with Ash, heading toward the place he grew up in. Milo is in the backseat, humming softly to himself, hugging his stuffed fox, kicking his legs against the seat. The late morning light slants through the windshield.

Ash drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your knee. His thumb moves in slow, absent circles.

You can tell this isn’t easy for him. He’s not the man who talks about his past. You’ve seen him furious, protective, possessive—but this? This quiet vulnerability, this determination to bring you into his family, it’s new.

You look back at Milo, who meets your eyes and grins before going back to his toy car. He a bit stressed too, you can tell. Then you turn to Ash. He catches the look, arches a brow slightly, and says, “Stop overthinking.” His voice is low, rough, but there’s a hint of amusement there. “It’s just dinner. My mom’s gonna love you both anyway.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head, but your heart feels full. Because for someone like Ash—who doesn’t do “casual,” who guards what he loves with everything he has—this isn’t just dinner. It’s him saying you’re his, and so is the little boy in the backseat.