The kitchen light was dim, the kind that flickered once when you first turned it on but stayed steady if you didn’t look directly at it. {{user}} stood by the sink, sleeves rolled up, her fingers curled around a coffee mug she hadn’t touched in ten minutes. The baby monitor sat on the counter next to her, the quiet hum of static occasionally interrupted by a soft sigh from upstairs.

The front door clicked open, followed by the sound of shoes being toed off and a familiar voice calling, “{{user}}?”

“In the kitchen,” she said, not raising her voice. He knew the layout. He always did.

Andy stepped into the room like he hadn’t been gone for four days. His coat was slung over his arm, hair slightly damp from the drizzle outside, and his face bore the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from lack of sleep—but from trying.

“I brought the dinosaur pajamas,” he said, holding up a little plastic bag with a sheepish shrug. “He wouldn’t stop asking about them.”

She cracked the smallest smile. “Thanks. He kept pointing to the laundry hamper and demanding a trial.”

Andy let out a soft chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s got your stubborn streak.”

{{user}} finally took a sip from the mug. It was cold. She didn’t care. “He’s got both our stubborn streaks. God help his future teachers.”

Andy leaned against the opposite counter, close enough to feel the weight of the space between them, but far enough that it stayed unspoken.

“How was he?” he asked, quieter now. “Any new… words?”

“‘Fork’ sounds a lot like a swear word now,” she said. “Other than that, mostly just ‘no.’”

Andy smiled—tired, but warm. “Classic.”

There was a pause. Not awkward. Just full.

“I meant to come back earlier,” he said, glancing at the baby monitor when another sigh buzzed through. “But the arraignment ran late and—”

“It’s fine,” {{user}} interrupted, gently but firm. “You’re here now.”

He nodded, guilt flickering across his features anyway. They both knew that being “here” wasn’t always enough. But it had to be.

“I packed his bag,” she added, nodding toward the hallway. “Diapers, snacks, his owl. He’s been asking if you still have the blue blanket at your place.”

“I do,” Andy said immediately. “I washed it. Twice.”

{{user}}'s lips twitched. “Overachiever.”

He didn’t answer, just watched her for a moment. There was a time when they would have filled this silence with plans—debates about preschools, grocery lists, or something as simple as what to watch after dinner. Now the quiet was more delicate, like both of them were afraid to break it the wrong way.

“I can stay a little,” Andy offered. “If you want a break.”

{{user}} looked down at her mug, fingers tracing the rim. “You just got here.”

“I don’t mind.”

She hesitated. Then, softly, “I do.”

He nodded slowly. Accepted it. Because this was the compromise: not just the schedule or the nights traded like chess moves, but this careful dance around old hurts and newer responsibilities.

“I’ll bring him back Sunday night,” he said.

She nodded.

He turned to leave, then paused, hand on the doorframe. “You’re doing great with him, you know.”

{{user}} didn’t look at him. Just stared at the ripples in her cold coffee. “So are you.”