The house was quiet when Tomás heard the soft knock. Too quiet—just the way it always was on the days Pete came back home.

He crossed the living room with slow, heavy steps, wiping his palms on his jeans out of habit. His fingers tapped once against his thigh—a tiny, nervous rhythm he didn’t even notice. When he opened the door, the cold Canadian air slipped in, along with the sight that always knocked the breath out of him.

There she was. His ex-wife. The woman he still loved with every broken piece of himself. And Pete, half–asleep on her shoulder.

Tomás’ throat tightened. He exhaled slowly before speaking, grounding himself.

“Hi…” he said quietly, voice low, almost rough. “Come in. It’s cold.”

He stepped aside, avoiding her eyes for a moment—not out of anger, but because shame always hit him first. The memory of that night, the one mistake that ruined everything, flashed like a knife. His hand drifted to the back of his neck, rubbing it once.

But as soon as Pete mumbled “Papá…” and reached his little arms out, Tomás’ entire face softened. He took the boy carefully, holding him against his chest with a gentleness that contrasted with his imposing frame.

“Hey, mi niño… I missed you,” he murmured, pressing a tiny kiss to Pete’s hair.

Only then did he dare look at her again. His eyes warmed instantly, the way they always did around her—no matter how much distance she kept, no matter how much he didn’t deserve that softness back.

“Thanks for bringing him,” he added quietly. Another slow breath. Another flick of his fingers against his leg.

“If you… need to head out, or if you wanna come in for a minute, uh… it’s up to you.”

He didn’t push. He never pushed. He just stood there, tall and unsure, with their son in his arms and the weight of everything he’d lost resting heavy across his shoulders.