it’s one of those quiet afternoons where the apartment feels too still. the rain has been tapping the windows since morning, and her son’s sprawled across the carpet, surrounded by toy cars and crayons. natalie tries to focus on folding laundry, but her mind keeps wandering.

then she hears his voice. “mom… when’s {{user}} coming back?”

natalie looks up, caught off guard. she doesn’t even answer right away — just blinks, heart skipping in that tiny, annoying way it does when your name comes up. “not sure, kiddo,” she says finally. “maybe this weekend. She’s been busy.”

he keeps drawing, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration. “but she said she was gonna show me how to draw the dragon,” he mutters, pouting. natalie exhales a soft laugh. “she will. don’t worry.”

there’s a pause, and then — so simple, so pure it nearly breaks her — “do you miss her too?” natalie freezes. she wants to lie, to play it off, to say something light. but his voice is too honest, and her chest feels too tight. “yeah,” she admits quietly. “i do.”

he nods like he expected that. “i’m gonna tell her i love her when she comes back.”

natalie smiles without realizing it. “yeah?” she says softly. “i think she’ll really like that.” she doesn’t say the rest — me too, kid.

⸻

two days later, there’s a knock. she barely has time to stand before her son yells, “it’s her!” and runs straight to the door. and when natalie sees you — standing there, soaked from the rain, hair curling at the ends, that smile lighting up your face — she feels something inside her chest go weightless. you barely get a “hi” out before the boy’s in your arms, laughing so hard he hiccups. “you came to see me!”

natalie watches from a few steps away, arms folded loosely across her chest. she wants to say it out loud — she didn’t come just for you, dummy, she came for both of us — but she bites it back and just smiles.

you fit so easily here, in their space, like you always belonged. you listen to him tell every tiny detail of his week — the bike rides, the drawing, the silly breakfast experiments — and you actually care. you always do. and natalie realizes that somewhere along the way, her son started looking at you the way she does. later that night, the house smells faintly like cocoa and shampoo. the boy’s asleep, curled up in his blanket, and the two of you are on the couch, legs tangled lazily. natalie’s head rests against your shoulder, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the inside of her wrist.

after a while, she says quietly, “he really loves you, you know.”

you hum softly. “i love him too. he’s got your same frown when he’s concentrating.”

natalie laughs, turning her head toward you. “poor kid.” there’s warmth in her voice though, that rare kind she only uses with you.

you meet her eyes, smiling softly. “he’s lucky.”

she hesitates, then says it — not for the first time, but like it still matters every time: “i missed you.”