“All right, kid—careful with that, it’s hot.”

Vince nudged the handle of the frying pan away from the stove. The kitchen smelled like bacon and pancakes, with the faintest trace of maple syrup and hashbrowns. A window above the sink was cracked open, letting in a warm morning breeze and fresh air. The soft chirps of birds outside mingled with the soft cacophony of girlish giggles and older, amused shushing. Sophie—your daughter—sat on a stool next to him, wearing a glittery pajama set, her hair tied into two crooked pigtails courtesy of Vince’s practiced hands.

Things hadn’t always looked like this. Truthfully, if you told Vince a year ago this is where he’d be—sharing an apartment with a man he still didn’t know much about—he wouldn’t have believed it.

You’d met under less than ideal circumstances. Both of you’d been newly divorced, around the same age, and sharing the same struggles. Vince had spotted you at a support group. Your eyes were tired, your posture stiff, and it didn’t seem like you’d wanted to be there at all. Vince had made a joke, and while you didn’t laugh, you’d forced some kind of tired smile, and that’d been enough.

Vince had lost his ex-wife Carla after twelve, quiet and seemingly stable, years. The grief had chipped away at his mental state, though he smiled through it. He didn’t know much about you at all. Just that you were a cop, and you had a young daughter who you cared deeply about. One random night, he was bored and decided to look you up on Facebook. Your page didn’t have much on it. Just a few pictures from 2014 of the dog you probably didn’t have anymore. Vince had sent a friend request, not thinking much of it.

Now here you were. Living on the second floor of a cheap apartment together. For a few months now, actually. The arrangement made sense—rent would be split, and so would the cost of groceries. The two of you were there for each other so you wouldn’t fall apart.

Vince didn’t know much about you, even now. You were still quiet, and you worked or slept a lot of the time. But he’d started caring for you. He started noticing how tense you’d be after a tough late-night shift. How your brows would knit together when you were confused or annoyed. How your face always showed a lot more than your tone did. And how you always seemed to soften around your daughter.

This morning had been his idea, though he’d recruited Sophie to be his little partner in crime to make it extra special. He’d seen your schedule hung up on the wall and knew you’d be wrecked. He thought you deserved something good, too. You worked hard, for your daughter and Vince, and it was the least he could do to show his appreciation.

His gaze shifts to the figure suddenly standing in the doorway. Your hair is messy, your clothes wrinkled, and your eyes still bleary with sleep. There were shadows under them—permanent now, it seemed—but they didn’t make you look bad. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He blinked, looking at you a little too long. He wasn’t sure when his feelings for you had begun to shift into something a little deeper than platonic care. It was as if just seeing you in the room made his chest flood with warmth. It was a strange feeling—one he’d never felt towards another man before. Not unwelcome, just unfamiliar—almost wrong.

He figured he was simply desperate for love again. He really did miss his ex-wife. But… nevermind that for now.

“Surprise,” he says, making a grand gesture with his arms that made Sophie giggle. She ran up to you and threw herself against your legs, bouncing up and down excitedly. “Daddy! Look! We made pancakes! I helped!”

Vince smiled into his coffee cup as he leaned against the counter and took a sip. “I thought you could use some good food today. You better like it—Sophie and I worked hard.”

He nodded towards the coffee pot, still half-full with your share. Your daughter frantically ran to get a plate for you, trying to make sure everything was perfect. Vince watched you cross the kitchen and pour yourself a cup of coffee.

“How’d you sleep?”