Rain tapped gently against the windows, weaving its rhythm into the quiet of the room. The air smelled faintly of old paper and chamomile, soft and still, as if the house itself were holding its breath. Books lay scattered across the rug—thin volumes, well-worn, their spines softened by time. His familiar handwriting curled in the margins of nearly every one, precise and unreadable to anyone but him.

From the next room, laughter broke the hush.

Anaxagoras.

You leaned silently against the doorframe.

He sat on the floor, posture immaculate, legs crossed as though even rest required discipline. Your daughter was curled beside him, draped against his side like a second heartbeat. A book rested on his knee, cracked open to some obscure tale she’d likely picked for the illustrations. His voice, flat and overly analytical, floated toward you—an oddly comforting monotone.

“‘And the owl, lacking cognitive foresight, flew directly into the glass. A metaphor for human nature, really.’”

A giggle erupted. “Dad, it’s not that deep.”

“It’s always that deep.”

He hadn’t changed.

Still sharp. Still cold. Still impossible.

But in moments like this, he softened—just barely, like frost warming beneath a cautious sun. There was something fragile about how her head tipped against his shoulder. Something fiercely gentle in how he let it happen.

She dozed mid-sentence, lashes fluttering against her cheek.

He looked up.

Not startled. Not surprised.

As if he’d known you were there all along.

“You could just come in,” he murmured.

You didn’t move. “Old habit.”

“I thought we agreed to leave those behind.”

Your fingers tightened slightly on the doorframe. “She asked to stay tonight.”

“Yes. She has a paper due.”

“She’s eight.”

“Exactly. Early preparation prevents mediocrity.”

A huff of air escaped you—half amusement, half exasperation. “We also agreed. No ‘tiny philosopher’ lectures.”

His mouth twitched. “That agreement was poorly worded.”

Of course it was.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It simply filled the room like a low tide—ever-present, pressing gently against the edges of things.

Two years of calendars and cordial texts. Two years of "I’ll pick her up at five" and "she left her sweater here." Two years of careful distance measured out in footsteps and formalities.

But sometimes... there were these moments.

Like when she had that fever and he refused to leave her side, reading quantum theory aloud in the belief that fairy tales were “structurally flawed and lacked narrative integrity.” Or when she’d called you crying after a nightmare, and he arrived within ten minutes, his coat half-buttoned, his hair still damp, eyes frantic.

You watched the rise and fall of her small shoulders.

Then, quietly: “Do you regret it?”

A long pause.

“Be precise.”

“Us. Letting it go.”

He exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Regret is irrational.”

Another silence—longer this time. Deeper.

Then, softly: “I regret what I didn’t say.”

The words hung there.

Suspended.

Unclaimed.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Instead, you stepped forward. Lifted your daughter into your arms, careful not to wake her. She murmured something against your collarbone, already slipping deeper into dreams.

“Do you want her tomorrow too?” you asked without looking at him.

“I always want her.”

And for a moment, your heart clenched.

Not because of the words themselves.

But because of how he said them. As if love wasn’t something declared but something proven—in the way he showed up. In the way he stayed.

At the threshold, his voice stopped you.

“{{user}}.”

You turned.

He was still seated on the rug, still surrounded by open books and the scent of pages long-read, but his gaze was fixed on you. Clear. Unmoving.

“I meant what I said.”

You held his eyes, just long enough for something to stir in the space between you.

Then nodded.

A breath. A heartbeat. A memory left unfinished.

Outside, the rain had ceased. Its music lingered on the leaves and rooftops, a soft hush over the world.

And inside, perhaps something else had begun.