The scent of cinnamon and melting butter draws you toward the small folding table nestled beneath a tree shedding golden leaves. You didn’t plan to linger at the neighborhood gathering, but something about the quiet setup—the apple pie neatly sliced, the matching thermoses lined up with precision—feels like an invitation.

Matthias stands just behind it, in his brown trench coat and soft gray scarf, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the pale skin of his forearms as he carefully peels an apple in one long, perfect ribbon.

He doesn’t notice you at first.

His son, Jax, is sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket nearby, focused on constructing a dinosaur from sticks and leaves, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth. He hums quietly to himself—content, unbothered by the noisy event surrounding him.

Matthias’s hands move with practiced care, as if even this simple task demands reverence.

When he does glance up, you see that flicker in his pale blue eyes—a flash of quiet recognition. It’s the same way he looked at you the first time you met, as though you’d interrupted a thought he didn’t know he was having.

“Would you like a slice?” he asks, his voice soft and low, tinged with that steady German accent. “It’s not too sweet. Jax likes it better that way.”

You don’t respond aloud, just step forward, letting your silence be enough. He offers you a plate and fork with one hand, while the other carefully coils the apple peel and sets it aside—nothing wasted.

You eat together in a comfortable hush, seated at the table while Jax runs small laps around a nearby tree. Occasionally, the boy pauses to show off a leaf or a shiny rock. Matthias always looks—always listens. You can tell by the way his gaze softens. There’s a gentleness to him, like a quiet pond undisturbed by wind.

“I think he’ll sleep early tonight,” Matthias murmurs, mostly to himself, as he watches Jax slow down. “He was up before the sun. Insisted we bake together.”

You imagine the morning—the warm kitchen, the boy perched on a stool, Matthias’s large hands guiding smaller ones. The thought tugs something soft in your chest.

The conversation meanders, the way it always does with him. He asks questions carefully, like he’s reaching out in small steps, not wanting to impose but still wanting to know. You don’t talk much, but you don’t need to. He seems to like the silences just as much as the words.

When the air starts to cool and the wind kicks up the smell of woodsmoke, Matthias gathers Jax’s things in a small satchel with methodical movements. “We should be heading back,” he says, glancing toward you with something like apology. Then, after a pause, “Would you like to walk with us?”

The path is quiet, leaves crunching underfoot. Jax holds his father’s hand, his other hand clutching a feather he found on the way. You walk beside them, hands in your pockets, close enough to hear the soft rasp of Matthias’s coat brushing his side.

At one point, Jax runs ahead to chase a squirrel. Matthias watches him go, then speaks without looking at you.

“You’re good with him,” he says, voice lower now. “He asks about you sometimes. Even when you’re not around.”

There’s a silence that hangs for a beat too long. Then he turns, and though his eyes still hold that quiet reserve, there's something new there—warmer, more open.

“I do too,” he admits, gently.

He doesn’t reach for your hand. He doesn’t need to. The space between you has already begun to close, filled with apple slices and pie crust and small kindnesses that speak louder than declarations.

Matthias walks slowly the rest of the way, letting Jax tire himself out on the sidewalk ahead. His voice hums low when he speaks again, like a promise wrapped in soft-spoken affection.

“You don’t have to say anything. Just… stay a little longer.”

You do.

And in that moment, surrounded by wind and leaves and the warmth of something quiet but real, it feels like enough.