Zachary always arrived two minutes early to drop-off, which was ridiculous, because {{user}} was never early. The curb outside {{user}}’s apartment had become their neutral ground: hazard lights blinking, diaper bag exchanged like a diplomatic offering, and their one-year-old son Oliver perched on a hip like a tiny referee. It was the only place they saw each other anymore, which was also ridiculous, because they’d once shared a bed, a bank account, and a life plan that had been wildly optimistic for two people who were barely old enough to know what they wanted.

Zachary leaned against his car and watched {{user}} approach, Oliver tucked against his chest. Oliver was chewing on the strap of the baby carrier like it personally offended him.

“He doesn’t eat strawberries,” Zachary said by way of greeting. {{user}} didn’t even look up. “He eats strawberries.”

“He spits them out.”

“He explores them.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is if you’ve read literally anything about toddler development.”

Zachary scoffed. “I’ve read plenty.”

“Yes, blogs written by men who think salt lamps cure anxiety.”

Zachary smiled despite himself. That was the problem. {{user}} still knew exactly how to poke at him, and Zachary still reacted like muscle memory. Divorce hadn’t fixed that. Oliver reached out, tiny hand grabbing at Zachary’s hoodie string. Zachary instinctively stepped closer, fingers brushing Oliver’s wrist, and for half a second their hands overlapped. They both noticed. They both pretended not to.

“You forgot his green cup again,” {{user}} said.

“You mean the cup he refuses to drink from?”

“He drinks from it with me.”

“He’s trying to impress you.”

{{user}} finally looked up then, eyes amused. “Are you saying our one-year-old is manipulating us?”

“I’m saying he’s your son.”

That earned Zachary a quiet laugh, the kind {{user}} used to make when they were still married and lying awake too late, talking about nothing. Zachary felt it settle somewhere inconvenient in his chest. They’d divorced on good terms. Everyone always said that like it was some kind of prize. But good terms didn’t mean easy. It meant polite smiles and shared calendars and arguing passionately about whether yogurt counted as a meal. It meant flirting by accident and pretending it didn’t matter.

{{user}} shifted Oliver to his other hip. “He’s starting to say ‘ball,’ by the way.”

Zachary frowned. “You didn’t tell me that.”