Bruce was never invited. Not formally. But he always knew when to come by. When the lights in your apartment stayed on too late. When you didn’t answer texts but your location was still at the grocery store, twenty minutes longer than usual. He noticed things like that. Small patterns. Shifts. The kind of details most people ignored, he picked up and held onto like clues to a crime no one else saw.

He never showed up empty-handed, either. Tonight, it was takeout from your favorite place—the one where you always order extra sauce. A brand of herbal tea you once mentioned liking in passing. And something soft in a little paper bag: your kid’s favorite fruit chews, the ones shaped like stars. The bags under his eyes said he hadn’t slept. The scarf around his neck said he didn’t care as long as he got there.

You opened the door just as your toddler tugged at your sleeve, blinking up at Bruce with wide, curious eyes. “Is he my new daddy now?” they asked, voice unfiltered, small and sincere.

Bruce’s hand stilled halfway through lifting the takeout bag. His expression didn’t change much—he was too practiced for that—but his jaw shifted slightly. Not from discomfort. From restraint. He looked at you then, not the child. He gave you a look that screamed: 'what the hell do I even say?'