The knock at the door echoed through your apartment, sharp and sure. You glanced at the clock on the wall, the digits blinking back at you like a countdown. 6:00 p.m. on the dot. Another Friday where you’d hand over your son, Leo, along with his bag of snacks, spare clothes, and whatever other toddler essentials you could stuff into a dinosaur-patterned backpack.

Nat was oddly punctual to a fault, even when it grated on your nerves. Or maybe it was the way he leaned in your doorway with that cocky smile that grated, the one that had disappeared the morning after that one reckless night, only to resurface two years later like it never left.

You opened the door, and there he was: broad-shouldered, and annoyingly well-dressed for a quick handoff of a toddler. His dark hair was pulled into a low bun, and his cologne—a mix of cedarwood and citrus—hit you before his voice did.

“Hey,” Nat spoke, his tone casual but his eyes lingering just a second too long. “I’m here for the weekend boss.” His lips curved into a smirk, but it faltered when he saw you roll your eyes.

“And T-Rex has teeth like this, Mommy!”Leo exclaimed as he approached the two, baring his tiny teeth and throwing his arms wide, almost knocking the juice box out of your hand. “But Stegosaurus has spikes here,” he said, jabbing at his back with his toy, “and they don’t eat meat, they eat plants. Like broccoli! Hi daddy!”

Nat stood in the doorway, keys dangling from one hand, backpack in the other, frozen as if time had decided to pause just for him to watch this moment.

And here you were, just as radiant as the first time he saw you, but with a three-year-old who was his, and Nat wasn’t sure how many more weekends like this he could handle without blurting out that he wanted more than that he wanted more than shared custody.

God, he’d really fumbled.

As Nat turned to leave, your son in tow, clinging to his shoulder like a tiny backpack, he hesitated. “Hey,” he said, his voice quieter now, “uh…you’re welcome to join, you know? Could be fun.”