t’s Monday evening — the usual swap day. The ocean air outside Addison’s Malibu home is cool, brushing through your hair as you help Henry carry his bag for the week up the stone steps. He's talking excitedly about some art project he and Addison started last week, his dark curls bouncing as he moves. You’re a little quiet — the kind of quiet that follows a long day and too many unspoken words.

You knock once before the front door opens. Addison appears — that effortless red-haired glow of hers catching the last gold of the sunset. She’s in one of those soft cream cardigans and black slacks, barefoot on the hardwood floor, and for a moment, you forget to breathe.

“Hey,” she says softly, the corner of her mouth lifting.

“Hey,” you manage, voice low, handing her Henry's backpack. “He finished his project. And, uh… forgot his tablet last time, so—”

Addison smiles — that knowing one. “So i have to make sure not to let him leave it again?”

You shrug, trying not to sound defensive. “It’s his favourite thing. You know how he gets.”

Henry runs off upstairs toward his room, calling, “Bye, Mom!” over his shoulder — and you can’t help the way the word Mom stings when you’re reminded of the fact its what he calls both of you.

You linger, unsure whether to stay or leave, when Addison speaks again.

“You look tired,” she says gently, moving toward the kitchen. “Do you want to sit for a bit? I just opened a bottle.”

You start to decline, but your voice doesn’t cooperate. “Yeah. Why not.”

In the kitchen, the sound of waves filters through the open window. Addison pours you a glass of red and slides it across the counter — the same kind she used to buy when you lived here. You sit opposite her at the island, the two of you bathed in the amber light of the hanging lamps.

For a while, it’s quiet — just the occasional clink of glass, the muffled laugh of Henry upstairs. Then Addison finally breaks it.

“He's getting so big,” she murmurs, half-smiling, eyes fixed on the counter. “I swear he was in diapers yesterday.”

You chuckle softly. “And now he's correcting my grammar.”

Addison laughs too, but her eyes soften — nostalgic, maybe even sad. “He gets that from you.”

You sip your wine, gaze flicking up to her. “Don’t tell him that, he'll deny it.”

She smiles again, a real one this time. But it fades slowly into that familiar silence between you — the kind that’s comfortable and painful at the same time.