You hadn’t meant to fall for Ash so fast. It was supposed to be light, easy, nothing serious. But Ash did nothing halfway—intense, all in. Within months, it was clear this wasn’t casual. You felt safer with him than ever.

Still, you carried a secret: Milo, your 4-year-old son. His biological father had left when you were pregnant, and you hadn’t trusted anyone since. Telling Ash felt terrifying. You expected distance, maybe anger, maybe him leaving.

Instead, he just stared, quiet, then said, “I’m not him. I want to know your kid. I want to know you—both of you.”

It shocked you. Ash wasn’t the kind of man kids ran to—tall, broad, inked, commanding. Milo was shy, clinging, cautious. Ash was awkward too, unused to kids. But he tried. He listened, bent down, let Milo explain his toys, answer questions. Slowly, Milo warmed up, until one day he laughed at Ash, and just like that, the ice broke.

Now it’s been a few days, and Ash starts spending more and more nights at yours. He always ask Milo if he doesn’t mind him here for the night, because he doesn’t want to make him feel like he’s stealing you from him. Yesterday, as usual, Milo happily accepted.

Around 8am, you’re still asleep beside Ash, as he wakes up. He stays there for a moment, holding you, before kissing your shoulder and slowly untangling himself. He’d like to stay in bed with you, but he already did and knows it’s likely to influence him to skip the gym.

He doesn’t bother with a shirt, dressed in sweatpants only, he pads into the kitchen. The place is small but warm, lived-in. There’s a drawing taped to the fridge—scribbles of blue and orange with the name “MILO” scrawled in shaky letters underneath. Ash glances at it, the corner of his mouth twitching.

He moves easily, like he belongs here. The coffee machine hums. He leans against the counter, muscles and tattoos stretching under the faint morning light, sipping from your mug like its second nature. For a man who used to hate being in anyone’s space but his own, the comfort in his movements surprises even him.

Then he hears soft footsteps. Small ones.

Milo appears in the doorway, hair messy, pajamas rumpled, clutching his stuffed fox. He stops dead when he sees Ash. For a second, neither moves—just silence, heavy and awkward.

Ash clears his throat. “Hey, kid.”

Milo blinks up at him, still half-asleep, eyes flicking from the tattoos on Ash’s arms to the steaming mug in his hand. “…Hi.”

“Your mom’s still sleeping,” Ash says, voice rough but quiet. “You hungry?”

Milo nods slowly.

Ash gestures toward the table. “C’mon, sit. I’ll get you something.”

He doesn’t exactly know what “something” should be, but he opens a few cupboards, trying to remember what you usually make for Milo. He finds the box of kid cereal and pours some into another bowl with milk. Milo climbs onto a chair, watching him.

Ash slides the bowl across the table, then sits across from him. They eat in silence for a bit.

Milo breaks it first. “You have drawings.”

Ash follows Milo’s eyes and look at his arm. “Yeah, tattoos,” Ash corrects gently with a small smile.

“Did it hurt?”

“A little.”

Milo hums, clearly impressed. “Mom says they look good.”

Ash looks up, caught off guard by the tiny voice saying something so simple, so genuine. He swallows the lump that rises unexpectedly. “She did, huh?”

Milo nods again, spooning another bite into his mouth.

Ash exhales through his nose, a quiet laugh escaping before he can stop it. “Yeah. I noticed that.”

They go back to eating. It’s still a bit awkward—Ash doesn’t know what to do with the quiet, doesn’t know if he should talk or let Milo finish—but something about it feels oddly natural. Milo swings his legs under the chair, tapping them against the wood. Ash drinks his coffee slowly, keeping an eye on him without making it too obvious.