The pizza box still rests on the marble counter — warm, half-full, forgotten. Its faint scent lingers alongside the soft hum of the second Spider-Man movie playing in the background, casting a gentle glow across the penthouse walls. Henry lies curled between the two of you, wrapped snugly in the cinnamon-scented blanket you brought from home — the one he calls “the lucky one.” His small hand holds a crust, limp now, his head heavy in your lap, breathing slow and even.

You don’t move. Not a muscle. Not a breath that might wake him.

Kate sits close, near but not touching. She slipped off her heels at the door, silent, the soft thud swallowed by the carpet. Her coat slid off her shoulders like dark silk. Her hair is looser than usual, strands softening the strong lines of her face. Her makeup has faded, revealing freckles she never acknowledges and a softness she rarely lets show.

“I thought he’d be bouncing off the walls,” she says finally, voice low and hesitant. “You fed him carbs and sugar.”

You smile without looking up. “I made him run laps in the hallway. He called it superhero training. Said I had to time him.” She hums — almost a laugh. Almost.

You glance at her. Kate watches Henry with something between pride and heartbreak. Her hand hovers near his hair, close enough he’d feel it if he woke. Outside, the city gleams cold and distant, but inside, everything feels like wool and candle flame.

“You didn’t have to cook,” she adds after a beat, voice softer now. “I wanted to.” There’s a smirk at the corner of her mouth. “You didn’t have to stay.”

You say nothing. Neither of you lie.

You never meant to be part of this world.

You’d been walking home from a philosophy seminar when you saw a kid trip on the curb outside the bookstore — nose bleeding, palms scraped raw. You stopped, kneeled down, cleaned the blood away, told a stupid joke about astronauts, and he laughed — easy and breathy. He asked if you could come play Legos sometime.

You didn’t know then who his mother was.

When you arrived at the address he wrote down, you expected a nanny or a doorman with questions. Not Kate Lockwood herself, opening the door in a black blouse that spoke of power and precision, eyes sharp and unreadable.

You explained yourself, ready for suspicion. Instead, she listened. Watched you as if reading margins around a page. The next day, her assistant called. Henry wanted to see you again. The babysitter had quit. Kate had a proposition. She called it a trial. You never thought you’d stay longer than a week.

That was four months ago.

Now Henry calls you his “best grown-up.”

You teach him how to make pancakes, how to fix old LEGO sets. You’re the one he asks about constellations at bedtime, about why bad people sometimes get good endings. You’re not his father — Henry made that clear when he asked if he had to forgive Joe just because he was related to him. Kate was quiet all night, saying nothing. But when Henry left the room, she looked at you like maybe — just maybe — you’d given her something she thought she’d lost forever.

Kate shifts beside you, careful not to wake her son. Quiet enough that the city noise can’t reach this fragile peace. “I don’t say this often,” she murmurs. You glance over. She’s looking ahead, eyes distant but steady. “But you’re... good at this.”

You raise a brow. “Parenting?”

“No. Staying.”

The weight of those words settles. You nod slowly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Henry stirs. Her hand brushes his hair — just once, but enough. “He hasn’t had someone to look up to,” she says. “Not really.”

You say nothing.

Kate’s gaze softens. “Thank you for being... kind.” The word sounds fragile on her tongue. You nod quietly.

“Always.”

The screen flickers. Henry sighs softly in his sleep. Kate leans back, relaxing. When her head falls against yours beneath the blanket, you don't pull away.