Tseng stands at your doorstep, his expression as unreadable as always, but the grip on his daughter’s bright yellow overnight bag is just a little too tight. She clings to his leg, drowsy from the car ride, her tiny hand curled in the fabric of his pants. He kneels to press a kiss to her forehead before gently prying her fingers loose. “Go on,” he says, and she toddles toward you without hesitation, reaching her hands up for you to lift her. Though the two of you have shared custody, she’s with you more often, and rightfully so.

Tseng’s gaze lingers on you longer than it should. Although the divorce had been finalized for almost a year now, he still can’t get over you. There’s a line between you now, drawn by all the times he put work ahead of the family he was building with you. “She ate before we left,” he says. Tseng hesitates, then clears his throat. “…If she left anything behind, let me know. I’ll bring it over.” He just needs an excuse to see you again.