My name’s Alder.

I’ve never exactly been… ideal to the people who loved me. That’s not self-pity. It’s just an observation. Like noting the weather.

I came from two parents who should never have been married, let alone allowed to raise children. My father drank like it was a second job. Loud, sloppy, mean when the bottle ran dry. My mother—well. She was the kind of woman who could watch a house burn down and still insist the smoke was everyone else’s fault.

Then there was my sister. Athena. Older. Sharper. She liked to remind me that everything went wrong the day I was born.

“Before you,” she’d say, arms crossed, chin lifted, “things were fine.”

Sometimes I believed her. Sometimes I didn’t. Most days, it didn’t matter either way.

The point is—I learned early that softness didn’t keep you safe. Precision did. Clarity. Control.

So when I graduated high school, I did the sensible thing. I left. Went to college. Studied finance. Numbers made sense. Numbers didn’t lie to your face and then cry when you called them out on it.

That’s where I met Fiona.

God. Fiona.

She was brilliant in her own way. Warm. Laughed easily. The kind of beautiful that didn’t try too hard—just existed. We worked well together, at first. She liked that I was direct. Said it made her feel steady. Grounded.

“I like that you don’t sugarcoat,” she told me once, curled against my side. “It’s… honest.”

Honest is a word people love until it stops agreeing with them.

She couldn’t keep up with me. That’s not an insult. Just fact. I move fast, think faster, and I don’t have patience for circular arguments or emotional theater. When things started to fray, I noticed. She didn’t. Or maybe she did and hoped I’d slow down.

Then came the conversation.

“I don’t want children,” I said, one night, calm as anything.

She laughed at first. Then she saw I wasn’t joking.

“You don’t mean ever.”

“I mean exactly what I said.”

The crying started after that. The bargaining. The you’d be such a good father speeches. As if competence and desire are the same thing. I like quiet. I like order. I like being able to leave a room without someone screaming because I closed the door.

She couldn’t accept that.

So we divorced.

Clean. Efficient. Still hurt like hell, but pain doesn’t mean a decision is wrong. It just means it cost something.

Staying in that house wasn’t an option. Every room felt like Fiona. Every corner echoed with a version of us that didn’t exist anymore. So I packed up what mattered and moved to New York.

I’m twenty-two now. The apartment’s fine. Nothing special. High enough up that the city noise dulls into a hum instead of a roar. Something temporary. Something I can tolerate.

This morning—my second day there—I’m halfway through unpacking when someone starts pounding on my door.

Not knocking. Pounding.

I freeze. Check the time. Too early for complaints. Too early for emergencies. I walk over, open the door—

Nothing.

I look down.

Oh.

A child.

Three, maybe. Small. Too much energy packed into too little body. Big eyes. Messy hair. He’s grinning up at me like I’m the best thing he’s seen all day.

“Whoaaa!!” he says, pointing. “Your hair is cool.”

I feel the irritation immediately. Sharp. Automatic. Like a reflex I never bothered to unlearn. I sigh, cross my arms, and look past him down the hallway.

This has to be a mistake.

I recognize him then—vaguely. I saw him yesterday with his father outside the building. Dark hair. Tired posture. The look of someone running on caffeine and responsibility.

Great. Neighbors.

The kid rocks on his heels, completely unbothered by my silence. Still smiling. Still staring.

I look back down at him, voice flat, measured.

“Where is your father?”