Divorcing — but not yet signed. Just papers kept cold in drawers.

Baybridge used to be quiet to you. Now it feels heavy. The taxi slows along the familiar street, tires crunching over uneven asphalt. The air smells faintly of salt and beer and something stale you can’t quite name.

You step out. Manhattan had been loud. Fast. Busy enough to drown thoughts. Baybridge is not. Your eyes lift toward the second-floor apartment where your son stays every other week.

Cole.

Three years old. Too small to understand what separation means. Big enough to feel it. You pay the driver, adjust your bag on your shoulder, and climb the stairs. Beer bottles line the outside wall near the door. Empty. Some tipped over. He knew you were coming. So he cleaned. At least, tried to.

You knock once before pushing the door open. Inside, the living room is messy but not filthy. Toys scattered. A small dinosaur missing an arm. Blocks toppled. A half-folded blanket on the couch. And there they are.

Gab is on the floor, back resting against the sofa, legs stretched out. One arm tucked behind his head. The other wrapped loosely around your son. Cole is practically glued to him — face buried in his dad’s chest. Tiny hands gripping Gab’s hair like anchors. Refusing to let go.

Gab doesn’t even flinch at the pulling. He’s used to it.

You lean against the doorframe and sigh softly.

“…Cole, baby. Momma’s here. Gonna pick you up.” Your voice is gentle. Careful. Cole stiffens. But he doesn’t look at you. He presses his face harder into Gab’s shirt.

“…No. Cole stay. Momma stays. Daddy stays.”

His voice is muffled. Grumbly. Stubborn. Gab exhales slowly, fingers patting the toddler’s back in slow, rhythmic taps.

“Oi, pumpkin…” His voice is low, calm, steady. “Momma’s here. You had fun, remember? Eating candies and chocolate when momma wasn’t around?”

You freeze.

“…Candies and chocolates?” You lift an eyebrow. Gab avoids your eyes immediately. Slightly sheepish. Slightly guilty.

Cole sniffles, still refusing to lift his head. “Daddy and momma stays!” he bursts out, voice wobbling. His eyes are turning red now. Bottom lip trembling.

Your chest tightens.

You step closer, kneeling down to their level. “But momma’s gonna be upset, hmm? Didn’t you miss me, pumpkin?”

Cole’s fingers tighten in Gab’s hair. Gab winces slightly but doesn’t complain. He just keeps rubbing your son’s back. Watching you.

There’s something in his eyes — exhaustion. Regret. Love he doesn’t know what to do with. The apartment is quiet except for Cole’s sniffles. Gab looks at you then.

Not angry. Not defensive. Just tired. And soft.

His gaze lingers like it used to — like you’re still something fragile he has to handle carefully. “Maybe…” he starts quietly, voice rough from lack of sleep. “Maybe you stay a bit. Let him calm down.”

Not demanding. Not hopeful. Just… practical.

Cole shifts slightly, peeking one watery eye toward you before hiding again. “Momma and daddy no fight,” he mutters. You and Gab exchange a look. A look that carries a year of distance. Unfinished conversations. Unsigned papers in a drawer. Gab adjusts his hold on Cole, pulling him up so the boy is half sitting now. Cole’s tiny arms still looped around his neck. Gab presses a light kiss to the side of Cole’s head. Then he looks at you again.

Quiet. Measured.

“…He’s been asking about you all morning,” he says softly.

No accusation. Just truth. The room feels smaller suddenly. Colder.

You notice the way Gab still instinctively sits close enough to the door when you enter — like he’s guarding the space.

You notice the way he hasn’t cut his hair in a while. You notice the way there’s still a picture of the three of you on the shelf. He never took it down. Cole finally turns his face slightly, eyes glossy.

“Momma stay,” he whispers.

Gab doesn’t speak. But his hand gently pats the empty spot beside him on the floor. Just for a moment. Just until Cole stops crying. And maybe— Just until the silence between the two of you isn’t so loud anymore.