"i have a kid." you finally said it that night, your fingers tapping the rim of your glass because the truth always made you feel a little smaller. jeff buckley sat beside you at the bar, elbows resting on the wood, curls brushing his cheek as he faced you.

"how old?" he asked softly, not even blinking, like he’d been waiting for you to trust him with something real.

"five. turning six in a few weeks." you waited for the shift, the recoil, the polite excuse to leave. it always happened. every man you’d met since becoming a mom turned skittish the moment responsibility entered the room.

but jeff just smiled, slow and warm, like your truth didn’t scare him at all. "when’ll i meet him?" he said, taking another sip, eyes flicking to yours with something dangerously sincere.

you laughed — half nervous, half charmed and grabbed his drink for a sip of your own. "boy, i only just met you. chill out."

still… you clicked. painfully, beautifully. something in him matched something in you, like two tired souls recognizing a place to rest.

you dated for weeks, and somehow it never felt rushed or overwhelming. he never pushed, never demanded more than you could give. he’d walk you home, kiss your forehead, let you fall asleep on his shoulder when the day had wrung you dry. sometimes he’d strum his guitar while you cooked dinner for one, humming like he was trying to bring color back into your world.

then the day came.

you opened your apartment door, holding your breath as he stepped in behind you. it wasn’t much — peeling paint, small rooms, toys shoved into corners, a kitchen barely big enough for one person, let alone two. you saw it through his eyes and swallowed a sudden wave of shame.

jeff didn’t flinch. he just looked around with a kind of quiet ache, the kind that said he wished life had given you more.

he could’ve fixed all of it. he could buy ten apartments without noticing the dent in his bank account. but you refused every offer, every gentle suggestion. maybe it was the single mother mindset, the belief that letting someone help meant admitting you couldn’t do it alone. maybe it was fear of owing someone something.

"eli, come down!" you called, voice trembling more than you wanted to admit. jeff stood beside you, hands shoved into his pockets, breathing slow. you whispered, "i’m surprised you haven’t bolted."

he stepped behind you, his hands finding your hips, thumbs tracing circles that calmed something in you. "how could i run away from the woman i love?" he murmured into your ear. "and… i’ve always wanted to see if i’m good with kids."

before you could answer, small footsteps thudded on the stairs. your son peeked around the corner, messy-haired and wide-eyed. when he saw jeff, he froze. "mommy… that’s the guy who sings on the radio."

jeff laughed, a sound so bright it made your chest ache. he knelt down so he wasn’t towering over elliott. "yeah, that’s me. but don’t worry — i’m way less cool in person."

eli crept closer, clutching a worn action figure. "do you know nirvana too?" jeff pressed a hand to his heart dramatically. "i know everybody."

your son’s grin bloomed — wide and honest, the kind he rarely gave strangers. jeff pulled a guitar pick from his pocket, placing it gently in eli’s hand. "here. that’s lucky. it helped me write a song a few times."

you watched as your son’s small fingers curled around the pick like it was magic. watched as jeff looked at him like he’d just been handed something precious.

and in that moment — your child happy, jeff smiling at him like he’d always belonged, your chest so full it almost hurt. you realized something terrifying and beautiful: jeff buckley wasn’t here to save you. he wasn’t here out of pity or some impulsive softness.

he was here because he loved you. because he wanted all of it. your past, your tiredness, your messy little apartment, your son. and for the first time in years, you let someone stay.