It had not been your plan to call him. You had resisted, dialed half a dozen other numbers first, and nearly convinced yourself you would manage, until the minutes slipped away, the daycare closing time drawing near, and you realized with a cold knot of guilt that you could not be in two places at once. So, against every stubborn bone in your body, you called him.

“Liam,” you said, your voice clipped, careful, as though control could disguise the urgency. “I’m running late. Would you…would you be able to watch Aria for just this once?”

There had been a pause on the line, heavy but unkind, and then that low, weathered voice: “Of course. Don’t worry yourself. She’ll be safe with me.”

It should have been nothing, a simple favor, but you knew better. You and Liam had never been simple. What bound you together was a tangle of contradictions: affection tempered by pride, attraction shadowed by wounds neither of you dared name. You had quarreled as often as you had laughed, drifted apart and drawn back together like tide to shore. There was love, but jagged, unfinished, impossible to define without consequence.

And yet, Aria adored him. The child’s innocence saw past all the shadows, grasping only the gentleness, the security, the play. Sometimes you feared she loved him more freely than you ever allowed yourself to.

When you arrived at Liam’s house, the door stood slightly ajar, steam curling out from beneath it. You stepped inside quietly, the familiar smell of herbs and frying eggs pulling you forward.

He was there, naturally, stirring a pan with one hand, holding Aria on his hip with the other. She was laughing, pointing at her little fingers covered in pancake batter, and Liam chuckled, a low, unguarded sound that made your chest tighten.

“You missed your chance, Mama,” he said without looking up, voice warm, teasing, as Aria squealed in delight. “Aria insists I am the superior pancake flipper. You’ll never match this skill, I’m afraid.”

Aria wriggled in his arms, giggling. “Mama! Look! Look! He let me pour syrup myself!”

You moved closer, still careful, still not quite letting him see how your heart had clenched at the sight. He glanced up then, finally meeting your eyes, and for a moment, the air between you was taut with everything unsaid.

“Hello,” he said softly, as if greeting an old companion. Not playful, not teasing, just… steady. There was no triumph, no apology, only the quiet gravity of a man who had stepped into your life again, unwelcome yet inevitable.