{{user}} watches from a short distance as Malachy crouches to scoop their daughter into his arms outside Monkey Movement, her tiny shoes kicking happily as she laughs. He does this every week, dropoff and pickup—patient, gentle, entirely at ease in a role he once swore he’d never fit.

Barbara Chapman passes by, slowing just long enough to smile warmly. “You know,” she says, nodding toward them, “you three look like something out of a family magazine.”

{{user}} laughs, a little embarrassed, a little flattered, and turns—

—just as someone touches her shoulder.

She blinks in surprise. “Oh. Hi, Arj.”

Malachy’s oldest friend doesn’t return the smile. He looks thinner than she remembers. Unsteady. There’s something wrong in his eyes, and Malachy hasn’t seen him yet—he’s distracted, coaxing their daughter into her coat.

“Mack wasn’t one for staying with girls too long,” Arj says flatly.

{{user}} stiffens.

“So, I did have a hope,” he continues, voice rough, “that when he was done with you… that we might—” He stops himself with a hollow chuckle, shaking his head. “Turns out you’re the one worth changing for.”

Her brows knit. “Arj—”

“He becomes the gold-star family man,” Arj cuts in, bitterness slurring the edges of his words. “And I... become…”

He looks down at his hands, swaying slightly.

“…this.”

She catches the sharp scent of liquor on his breath.

“No one’s idea of heaven.”

{{user}} swallows hard, eyes flicking past him to where Malachy is turning back toward them now—daughter balanced on his hip, smile already forming—

—and suddenly the space between everything feels razor-thin.