The pizza box is still warm on the marble counter, half-full and ignored now. A second Spider-Man movie hums in the background, low and glowing across the penthouse walls. Henry is curled between the two of you, wrapped in the blanket you brought from home — the one he calls “the lucky one” because it smells like cinnamon and safety. He fell asleep twenty minutes ago with a crust in his hand and his head in your lap.

You don’t dare move.

Kate is next to you, close but not quite touching. She kicked off her heels at the door without saying anything. Her coat slid off her shoulders like silk on water. Her hair is looser than usual. Her makeup is faded from the day, revealing the freckles she never acknowledges and the softness she rarely lets show.

“I thought he’d be bouncing off the walls,” she says finally, her voice a low breath. “You fed him carbs and sugar.” You smile without looking at her. “I also made him run laps in the hallway. He called it superhero training. Said I had to time him.” She hums — almost a laugh.

Almost.

You glance at her. She’s watching Henry with something between pride and heartbreak. Her hand is near his hair, not quite stroking it, but close enough that he’d feel her if he woke up. The city outside is all chrome and diamond light, but in here, everything feels like wool and candle flame.

“You didn’t have to cook,” she adds after a beat. “I wanted to.” She smirked .“You didn’t have to stay.” You say nothing. You both know that isn’t true.

You didn’t mean to become part of this world. You’d just been walking home from a philosophy seminar when you saw a kid trip on the curb outside the bookstore. Nose bleeding, palms scraped raw. You helped him up. Sat him down. Cleaned him up with the tissues in your backpack and told him a stupid joke about astronauts. He laughed. Asked if you could come play Legos sometime.

You hadn’t known who his mother was. Not then.

When you showed up at the address he shakily wrote down, you’d expected a nanny, maybe a doorman with questions. Not Kate Lockwood answering the door herself in a black blouse and an expression like marble.

You’d explained. You were ready for suspicion. Accusation. Instead, she’d listened. Watched you the whole time like she was reading margins around a page. The next day, her assistant called. Henry wanted to see you again. The babysitter had quit. Kate had a proposition. She called it a trial. You didn’t expect to stay longer than a week. That was four months ago. Now, Henry calls you his “best grown-up.”

You’re the one who teaches him how to make pancakes and fix old LEGO sets. You’re the one he asks about constellations at bedtime and why bad people sometimes get good endings. You’re not his father. He made that clear the night he asked if he had to forgive Joe just because he was related to him. Kate had been quiet that whole night. Said nothing. But when Henry left the room, she looked at you like maybe — just maybe — you’d given her something she thought she’d never find again.

Now, she shifts beside you. Carefully. Quiet enough not to wake her son. “I don’t say this often,” she murmurs. You glance over. She’s looking straight ahead. “But you’re… good at this.” You raise a brow. “Parenting?” you ask. “No. Staying.” That takes a second to sink in. You nod, slowly. “I’m not going anywhere.” Henry shifts in his sleep. Her hand brushes his hair, once. Just once. “He hasn’t had someone to look up to,” she says. “Not really.” You say nothing.

She looks at you again. This time, softer. Less armor. Just Kate. “Thank you for being… kind.” The word seems foreign in her mouth. Fragile. You nod again, quieter this time. "Always.”

The screen flickers. Henry sighs in his sleep. Kate leans back, just enough to relax. And when her shoulder leaned on yours , under the blanket, she doesn’t pull away.