It was early still—the kind of soft, silver morning where the frost clings to the windowpanes like old lace and the fire in the hearth crackles low, throwing long shadows across the floor. Arthur’s hands were rough with cold as he stirred the porridge, slow and careful, the wooden spoon knocking against the pot in a rhythm that had become familiar to him. Outside, the sky was the color of wet paper, and the world beyond your door was nothing but a smear of pale mist and sleeping trees.

The child was still half-asleep when he padded in—small, bare feet against wood, hair sticking out at angles, dragging their old wool blanket like a trailing cape. Arthur didn’t say anything at first. He only glanced up from the stove, his breath rising like smoke in the chill. Then he smiled—not wide, but real—and reached out one long arm to ruffle the boy's hair.

“Mornin’, trouble,” he murmured. “You sleep alright?”

He nodded, climbing onto the chair at the table, legs swinging. Arthur ladled the porridge into the chipped blue bowl you always used for the kid—out of all the ones in the cupboard, that’s the one he liked best, he'd told you once in confidence, and that had been that. Arthur sat across from him, one hand nursing a mug of coffee, steam curling around the rim.

There were things he never said aloud. How much the boy looked like his father. How sometimes it hit him in quiet moments like this, small and sharp—like a fishbone caught in the throat. But the child, still blinking sleep from their eyes, didn’t know any of that. To him, Arthur had always been there. Not a thunderous arrival or a replacement in shining boots—just the man who patched up scraped knees, who could lift him with one arm when he cried, who made the best apple jam, even if he pretended he didn’t like sweets.

“Gonna be cold today,” he said, watching the boy eat. “You’ll need the thick coat. The one with the brass buttons.” He sipped his coffee. “You know, the one you said makes you look like a cavalry captain.”

They grinned with a spoon in their mouth, and he saw it again—that bright, unguarded joy. So damn easy to love.

He fixed the loose strap on their boot before the boy went outside. Tied it twice, snug and sure. A practiced thing. The child chattered about nothing in particular—schoolwork and birds and the way frost made the garden look like it’d been dusted with sugar. Arthur let him talk, let the sound of his voice wrap around the silence like thread, stitching him back into the shape of a man.

Later, when the boy was gone and the door had shut behind him, he lingered in the quiet. Picked up the bowl, still warm from their hands.

You came into the room not long after, and he didn’t turn, just kept washing up, sleeves rolled to the elbow, water darkening the cuffs of his shirt. He could feel you watching him. He didn’t need to look to know what your eyes said.

“You know,” he said, voice low, steady, “he does this thing… where he tries to skip every third step on the porch. Been doin’ it for weeks now.” He glanced toward the window, his expression unreadable. “Ain’t figured it out yet, but he’ll get there.”

Arthur turned then, brushing his hands dry on the towel, his face lined with softness that had taken years to grow into. He crossed the kitchen in those slow, deliberate steps of his, kissed your temple without a word. The fire had gone low, but he didn’t mind. He’d warm it back up.

And tomorrow, he’d be there again—same as always. With porridge and boots and brass-buttoned coats. With the steady hands of a man who had chosen, long ago, that love didn’t need a reason to stay.