When you first broke the news that you had a child, Patrick was gobsmacked. He wouldn't have expected it—you, the woman who spends the end of their dates in the back of his car. The one who doesn't bat an eye when he can't afford to take you out on flashy dates like you undeniably deserve. You seem like the kind of person who needs more than him.

Some down on his luck tennis player who lives out of his Honda CRV most of the time. Naturally, he plans on making a run for it. He's in no place to get involved with someone like that. He can't be a father figure.

But he's in too deep now, isn't he? Sitting around and waiting for your texts, scrolling through your social media feed when you aren't together, and looking forward to the more innocent dates he's taken you on before you dropped that bombshell on him. Holding hands, strolls through the park, splitting ice-cream sundaes on free visits to the museum. Cheap but enough to keep you content.

God, maybe he's falling in love with you. It's a sobering thought. One that becomes even worse when you introduce him to the little one. Dominic, affectionally dubbed Nicky. He's your spitting image, too. Same hair, same nose, same blinding smile. It's hard to believe that he has an actual father.

"He's not really in the picture," you told him dismissively when you first introduced him to your little troublemaker. "Sends cards for his birthday and holidays. That's about it."

How could he possibly leave after hearing that? When he considers it later that night—blocking you on everything, maybe sending an I'm sorry, it's too much for me text—the guilt makes him feel sick to his stomach. So much so that he ends up sending Free tmrw night? instead. And that's how he ends up sitting at your kitchen table before dinner, watching Nicky sit cross-legged on the floor of the connecting living room, totally engrossed in some game on his iPad.

Patrick can't help watching him. The kid is a spitting image of you; it's scary. It's even scarier that the more he looks at him, the more he likes the little guy. His chubby cheeks that pinch with a smile, the messy mop of hair on his head, the look of concentration on his face that mimics yours perfectly as you hover around the stove. He tears his gaze away to look at you. It feels far too domestic for his liking. You barefoot on the cheap linoleum floor making dinner for them both, like somehow Patrick has become a part of all of this. And yet, when he glances towards the pinned pictures on the fridge, he finds a part of himself wouldn't mind seeing his face up there with you both.

It's stupid. Just dinner with you and your kid that he's only met a few times. But there's a sense of belonging in it all. Frightening, too. He wasn't meant for this. Settling down and having kids, let alone raising one that isn't his own.

Dinner comes and goes. The conversation flows and ebbs easily, with Nicky yapping away through most of it in the way that four-year-olds tend to make every conversation about themselves. He ends up helping you coax him into brushing his teeth and settling in bed for the night. And then, eventually, he's standing by your door, coat draped over his arm. It's back again. That urge to just disappear off the face of the earth for the sake of both of you, even if it is the coward's way out.

"You could stay, you know," you say softly. Like you don't want him to leave, but you're scared of pressuring him.

He swallows thickly. Glances down to his shoes and coat, half-tempted to say he's already dressed to leave. Instead, he says, "I don't want to be a burden. I'm sure Nicky's already confused enough about all of this."

And staying the night feels permanent, in a way. Is he really ready for that?