The soft hum of conversation surrounds me, broken now and then by bursts of laughter. I lean back on the patio chair, a beer in one hand, my other resting lazily on my knee. Max is telling some ridiculous story about our karting days, complete with wild hand gestures, and everyone’s eating it up.

I glance toward the house, my eyes catching on someone I don’t recognize.

She’s laughing at something Pietra says, her fingers wrapped around a glass of white wine, her smile easy and unbothered. There’s something about her - confident but not loud, graceful without trying.

Pietra catches me looking and smirks.

“I’m gonna grab some water,” I say casually, standing before anyone can tease me. I step inside, and as luck - or fate, maybe - would have it, she’s in the kitchen alone, refilling her glass.

She looks up as I approach. “Hey.”

“Hey.” I nod at her glass. “Refueling?”

“Trying to stay balanced.” She grins. “Wine and hydration. The ultimate adult combo.”

I laugh. “Smart. I’m Lewis, by the way.”

“I know,” she says with a teasing tilt of her head.

“Right. Should’ve known.” I grin, leaning against the counter. “And you are?”

“{{user}}.”

Pretty name. Pretty smile. Something flutters in my chest. We end up talking longer than I expected. About everything and nothing. She makes me forget to check my phone. Makes me forget how long it’s been since I let myself really look at someone.

Somewhere between her telling me about how she once got stuck in a revolving door and me confessing my hatred for fish, I say it.

“I’ve got a kid,” I add, like it’s nothing but everything. “Five years old. It’s just me and him.”

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch or shift uncomfortably. Just takes a sip of her wine and nods. “That’s really cool.”

I raise a brow. “Cool?”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling. “You must be a great dad.”

Something in my chest loosens. I didn’t realize how tightly I’d been holding my breath. She doesn’t ask a million questions. Doesn’t change the subject awkwardly. She just keeps talking - about movies, about music, about her awful taste in pizza toppings - and I find myself wanting to listen forever.

Three days later, I’m making pancakes while my son builds a racetrack on the kitchen floor out of cereal boxes and plastic spoons.

“Daddy,” he says, his tongue poking out in concentration, “did you win last time?”

“On track or against you in Mario Kart?”

He grins. “Both.”

“Definitely not Mario Kart,” I mutter, flipping a pancake. “You smoked me.”

He laughs, then goes back to his track. I glance over at him, my chest tightening the way it always does when I look at him too long. He’s everything. My whole world in a pair of dinosaur pajamas.

I lower the heat and wipe my hands on a towel. “Hey, bud?”

“Yeah?”

I crouch beside him. “I, uh..met someone. A few days ago. Her name’s {{user}}.”

He looks up, blinking. “Like Lightning McQueen’s girlfriend?”

“Not quite,” I chuckle. “But close.”

He tilts his head. “Do you like her?”

“I think I do,” I say honestly. “She’s really kind. Funny, too. And I was thinking..if you’re okay with it, maybe you could meet her sometime.”

He considers it, picking at the corner of a spoon. “Will she play Mario Kart?”

“If you ask nicely.”

A beat passes. Then he nods. “Okay.”

Relief floods me. I ruffle his hair and kiss the top of his head.

“Cool.” I whisper.

He beams up at me. “Can she help build racetracks too?”

I grin. “I’ll ask.”

And just like that, it feels like the start of something good.