Archive of Our Own ^beta

You were two drinks in, already bored of guys sloshing pints and shouting over the music like they were auditioning to be Drunken Fool #4 in a bad teen movie. Each self proclaimed deep or controversial thought was, in fact, more mundane and unoriginal than the next. But today it occurred with above normal frequency and volume.

It's too draining to pretend anymore, even if it's just to wait and see, long after an unbecoming first impression. Even if a guy had potential, would I even live to see it, let alone experience it after nurturing it? No.

At this point it's not even bad luck. Globally the male race has collectively conspired to be as disappointing as possible. But as a hopeless romantic, you're on a mission to snag yourself one of the few good ones out there or die alone. Not for the sake of trying though.

Just have to find him.

Looking around, everything felt the same, was the same. Even if you've never been here before, these places were all too similar. Mostly regulars of various local flavors…except him.

Bingo.

Your gaze settled on an older gentleman at the bar by himself, eyes glued to the game on the screen. Greying at the temples, beard too. Had on half a suit, but still that was enough to stand out in this place.

He wore his clothes like it was in protest to the garments themselves. A careful deconstruction of buttons, rolled cuffs, and soft folds in well-worn cotton. Not disheveled, but undone. Can't lie, he got hotter the longer you looked.

You silently ran through qualifying questions for him. Best-case scenario, he has a job. Nice watch and a ring on his finger, so decent money and a family. Worst case scenario, he just got fired, or is stealing from his company, or cheats on his partner.

That's fine, he wasn't what you were after technically, you thought. Too old for you anyways, your mother's voice tore through your brain.

A lightbulb goes off. A silly idea really…but it may be a bullet worth biting. A little bit of networking could go a long way—

You slid onto the empty stool beside him without hesitation.

“Excuse me, can I ask you a personal question?”

That made him turn. Slow and deliberate, like a bear deciding whether to maul or amuse. He didn't stop you, but also you didn't know if you could be stopped at this point.

“Do you have a son?”

His brows lifted, just slightly.

“—and is he single, emotionally available, and housebroken?”

There was a pause. Then the slow rumble of his chuckle, like gravel warmed in the sun.

“You always open conversations like that?”

“Direct and straight for the kill? Usually.”

He tipped his glass in your direction, as if in acknowledgment. “What if I told you he’s not the prize you’re looking for?”

You let your smile soften. “Then I’d ask if he's anything like you?”

He shook his head, something wistful and forelorn passing through his expression.

“Im too old,” he said simply.

“Experienced.”

“Divorced and remarried.”

“Emotionally literate, then.”

“Set in my ways.”

“Consistent.”

He exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a laugh. “You’re good at that.”

“What, being right?”

“Seeing things the way you want to.”

“Tell me about him,” you said, gentle this time.

“What would you want to know?” He looked me up and down, trying to size me up like a challenge. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls who wants a man who can bench press a car but can’t change a tire,” he said.

“No,” you replied easily. You leaned in, resting your elbow on the bar like it was a chessboard and he’d just made the first move. “I want to know everything,” you said, eyes glinting. “How he was raised. What kind of man he is. What character flaws he has. What does he do when everything falls apart—does he shut down or rise up? Is he charming because he means it, or because he’s learned how to manipulate? And—” you pointed with your glass, “—most importantly, does he have good taste in women?”

That made him laugh again. Really laugh this time. He set his glass down and looked at you with something warmer behind the eyes. Recognition, maybe. A flicker of something familiar in a stranger’s face.

“I want someone who knows how to hold his temper in a traffic jam. Someone who knows when to fight and when to leave it. And who doesn’t get off on emotional chaos.”

“Seems like you’ve got high standards.”

You shrugged. “I know what I need and perfect isn’t on the list. Nobody is perfect. Economies shift, and beauty is fleeting. I don't care what his job is, how much money he makes, or what he looks like. I’m asking for someone to have good judgment. Someone competent. And I want to know what won't change about him if everything superficial suddenly went belly up.”

He took a sip first. Gave himself time to respond thoughtfully.

“Well he’s twenty-seven. Good heart, even if he doesn’t always know what to do with it. Someone with a brain. Excellent at keeping his cool. Funny. I think you’d like you.”

“So you vouch for him. He’s a good man. If you had a daughter, you’d be okay with him dating her?” I further clarified.

“I think he’s what you're looking for, I’ll admit.” he nodded back. “He deserves someone who can match him, same as you,” he said at last. “But it’s a little too early to tell just yet,” he positioned, voice dipping lower, gentler, “what about you? What’s your story?”

You tilted your head. “I’m a romantic with very little patience. I read too much. I care too hard. I laugh loudly. I don’t play games. I want real things with real people.”

He nodded. “You do know what you want.”

“And what I don’t.”

“What’s that?”

“Boys,” you said. “I’ve had my fill of half-formed men who want mothers and therapists and cheerleaders. I want someone who’s done becoming. Who is. Who knows how to hold space without making me shrink to fit inside it.”

There was silence after that. Like a string pulled taut between two points neither of you had meant to tie. Potential energy waiting for release.

He looked at you again, slower this time. Perhaps, in another life, you’d sat across from each other at a kitchen table, fingers brushing over ceramic mugs. Or danced in the living room to records that crackled like firewood. Or folded laundry in silence, each familiar with the other’s rhythms.

John was very quiet for a long moment. Then he lifted his glass.

“Well then,” he said. “To knowing what you want.”

You clinked yours against his, gently.

“To finding it,” you replied.

The rest of the night passed in conversation that slid between shameless flirtation and a scholastic debate on modern relationship dynamics. You moved on to talking more personally about books, about family, about what makes a life feel lived. He listened like someone who heard more than just words. You traded vulnerable stories about mistakes and meaning. About love that didn’t last, and sons he couldn’t always reach.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, the seed of something took root.

He was a good dad. Even if he didn’t believe it.

“You never told me your name,” he said.

You told him. Watched the way his mouth smiled around it as he spoke it into existence.

“John,” he offered in return.

“Nice to meet you, John. So. Will you give me his number?”

He considered it. Sipped once more, then set his glass down like a final thought.

“No—But I’ll give him yours,” he said swinging back to you.

You laughed. “And here I thought you’d want to keep me for yourself.”

“If I’d been born twenty-five years later,” he said, gaze slipping over you slow and warm, “I might’ve tried.”

But the air between you said otherwise. Like maybe the timing was wrong. Or maybe fate didn’t care about dates and years. Maybe some souls just circled each other until the world got twisted enough to set them on a collision course towards each other.

You left that night with the promise of a boy you hadn’t met and the name of a man you shouldn’t want to call.

━━━ ✧₊∘

He couldn’t get her voice out of his head.

Warm, disarming, blunt—she picked each word knowing it would land with power. It wasn’t the kind of charm that tried too hard. No giggles behind glassy eyes, no coy games. She was too self-possessed for that. Talked like a woman who had seen just enough disappointment to recognize her own worth and double down on it.

She had asked about his son like she was interviewing for a job she already knew she was qualified for. And damned if he didn’t find himself hoping Kyle would make a good impression.

The drive home was quiet. Windows down, the scent of warm asphalt and wet grass drifting in. London in the early summer always smelled faintly alive, like something growing under the concrete.

His wife was already in the kitchen when he stepped inside, barefoot, stirring something on the stove with one hand and sipping wine with the other.

“You’re just in time,” she said without turning.

Slipping off his boots near the door, he grunted. “Stopped at the pub to finish the match, met someone interesting. Had a chat.”

He paused before dropping the most important bit. “She asked if I had a son.”

Her laughter was light, but it faded quickly. “What’d you tell her?”

“That I did. And that I thought the two of them might get on.”

“You’re setting him up now?” Her tone was part surprise, part curiosity.

“She’s got a good head on her shoulders,” he said simply. “Smart. Knows what she wants. Sharp tongue. Bit of fire. But… responsible too.”

His wife blinked. “You really liked her, wow thats a first.”

He paused. Then, softly, “She’s what I hoped he’d find for himself. Down to earth. No air in her head. Real.”

A noise at the top of the stairs interrupted them. Kyle ambled down in athletic shorts and a hoodie, phone in hand.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey son,” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I, uh—actually wanted to talk to you.”

Kyle looked between the two of them. “Okay…?”

“There’s a girl I met. I think you should take her out on a date.”

There was a silence.

Kyle looked at his mum, then back at his dad. “You’re setting me up with someone?”

“She was bold,” John said, his tone bordering on proud. “Smart. Funny. Pretty,” he put emphasis on the last one when he looked back at the boy.

“And you just… gave her my number?”

“No. I got hers. Figured I’d ask you first, then you can ask her out properly.” he slides the napkin with your number on it.

Kyle laughed, “That’s so weird, Dad.”

“It’s not weird. I was your wing-man tonight.” Swatting his kids arm when he reached to dip his finger in to taste his mums cooking. “Successfully, I might add.” John sighed, crossing his arms. “Listen, you don’t have to do anything. But this one’s different. She’s got some bite and knows who she is.”

Kyle was quiet a moment. “You really think she’s all that?”

“Yes,” John said, a bit too quickly. “She’s the kind of woman you build a life with.” He softened, “You’d be a very lucky man, so don’t waste her time. She could either be the one or the one that got away.”

John looked at the floor. Then the wall. Then out the window. Somewhere, in the corner of his chest, something ached—lamented for what could never be. But he made his choice about his family.

He cleared his throat, reaching for a plate. “She’s exactly what you should want,” he added, trying to bury the honesty under routine. “Trust me.”

And he meant it. But God help him. Somewhere deep down and dusted with denial, he almost wished she hadn’t asked about his son.

You learned each other, layer by layer, and moved in together after a year. You fell in love with the rhythm of it, the quiet, seamless way your life with Kyle took shape. Not in grand gestures or declarations, but in the soft routines that you built together; shared mornings and grocery runs, Sunday laundry folding rituals, shared music playlist coloring the background.

He ordered too much takeout and you made too few meals, but it felt real. He kept his uniform in pristine condition, like a soldier, but would leave cups on every surface for days on end. He kissed hard, with his whole chest, but hugged like someone afraid of being held for too long. You didn’t mind. He was still learning how to love you properly, but you were patient enough to teach him. You wore Kyle’s clothes and he left hair in the sink. You fought about little things and made up quickly. 

You spent the holidays with his family. You learned to navigate the particular choreography of group dinners. You adapted to their traditions like ivy on an old brick wall, wrapping yourself around what was already there.

John called you “darling”, sometimes “sweetheart.” Even in the beginning, John's protective and caring nature had extended to you almost immediately. He'd dropped off meals Kyle’s mum made when you both were sick with the same flu. Your drink preferences were kept in stock at the family house, and you always received thoughtful gifts for Christmas, birthdays, and other milestones. 

You became a recurring character in their stories.

The winter of your second year together, you had a pregnancy scare that turned very real, very quickly. The test blinked positive in your hands while you sat on top of the toilet trying to breathe. Kyle didn’t panic though. He’d knelt beside you on the tile, held your hand and said, “Whatever you want to do, we do it together.” He was ready to do the right thing by you, whatever it was. 

You made the choice to terminate. A baby didn't feel right. Timing, you thought. And while you never regretted it, something between Kyle and you changed forever. A connection forged in steel that could only ever bend and never be fully severed. 

The IUD you got after was just in case of another accident, and for a while, Kyle couldn’t keep your hands off you. It felt like you were practicing for something, laying a foundation for a larger life and a fuller future. A house that could hold a child—one day, when you were ready. Things felt solid, you were closer than ever. It was reassuring.

The third year, things were same-same, but different. One Christmas turned into two. Kyle’s parents split and it was amicable as far as you could tell. Together they sat Kyle and you, and Simon and Johnny down to break the news of their divorce. Being a military wife raising two boys without their dad, took a toll on Kyle’s mum. Now an empty nester, she wanted a fresh new start for herself.

You nodded because you understood. A relationship takes two. It happened to your parents as well. But hey, the multiple Chrismases and holidays make up for it right?

But something shifted at home. It eroded slowly, barely noticeable at first. Kyle started working late more often, forgetting things you’d told him. He didn’t reach for you in the mornings anymore, didn’t linger in the doorframe when you walked out of the shower. He kissed you still, but not like before. It was missing something now, moreso a habit, like putting on socks before shoes.

You told yourself it was stress or burnout. You reminded yourself that relationships had seasons. Lulls were normal. Three years was a long time to live under one roof, long enough for intimacy to start fading into routine. So you made more of an effort and when he didn’t notice, you told yourself it wasn’t a big deal.

But the space between you grew cavernous.

You started seeing it in the smallest things; his phone now tilted away from you when he scrolled, and he stopped asking you about your day and recounting his. You felt crazy. You wanted to be above it and trust that your love was stronger than suspicion. This was just a rough patch, right? 

But the doubt crept in like flooding waters. You tried not to look too hard, to take issue with everything he did or didn't do. Yet a rising tide of insecurity flowed through you. What if the space you felt wasn’t just distance, but the space someone else had already taken? 

No. Kyle wouldn't do that. 

He understands loyalty and commitment. Maybe he was planning something—a proposal? Maybe the late nights were extra hours for a ring. You started picturing what your names would look like on wedding invitations. 

Not if, but when.

And maybe that was the mistake.

The truth landed like a blindside tackle, knocking the air from your lungs. You’d been walking around half-asleep, and now you were suddenly awake in the middle of a nightmare. A message from a friend, a video, a photo. Him at a restaurant with someone else. You recognized her. You remembered her name, someone he’d mentioned in passing. Someone he had a crush on in school. The girl-next-door type. The one who got away. And now here she was, resurfaced and newly single. Irrefutable proof, despite your denial

You hoped, but your stomach and chest stayed tight. Along with your self esteem, your appetite shrank, your sleep diminished, your skin didn’t feel like your own. A hostage in your own relationship—pretending everything was fine so that you could buy yourself time. You told yourself you were holding on for closure. For dignity. You were bracing for an explosion. It's never like the movies, there was no plot to follow. You needed to blaze a path that felt right for you and not some other main character. 

You went to dinners with Kyle's family like nothing happened, told his mum how much you liked her jumper, made small talk with John, laughed at all of Johnny’s terrible jokes. You went on trips and posed for photos with your cheek against his shoulder and a hand in his. You told your friends everything was fine. You carried on, half-alive, spark snuffed. 

The worst part—you still loved him. Or maybe not him, but a version of him. The memory and the promise. More than three years you gave that you’d never get back. But really, you just didn’t want to start over. You didn’t want to be pushing thirty and single and broken-hearted. Again.

The part that made your heart ache more than anything else, was how easy it was for him to live like this. No encrypted apps, no secret folder, no elaborate lie, he wasn't hiding anything technically. Like he was too much of a coward to break up with you and was hoping you’d do it for him. He was daring you to be the bad guy, and be the catalyst that brings down the avalanche. 

So you confronted him gently. You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t throw anything. You asked why—your voice calm and careful, despite what you were feeling. 

Kyle wept like a child caught in the act, like someone ashamed of being found out, but not sorry enough to stop. You knew the tears weren’t for you. They were for himself. When he finally said it—yes, he’d cheated—it didn’t come with an apology. Just a flurry of excuses. 

He felt like he didn’t matter, his actions didn’t matter. That being with you made him feel small. Like the guy who wasn’t good enough for the perfect girl everyone else adored. You were the daughter his parents always wanted, his mum and dad looked at you the way they’d never looked at him. He was insecure. That he was constantly competing in his own house, for attention, for affection, for air to breathe. He told you he couldn’t take it anymore. You were holding him back from living a more exciting life that he envisioned for himself. The son whose shine dulled when he was with you. 

What bullshit.

You stood there, numb, as he told you how you were a threat. How your presence felt like erasure. You wanted to scream. To collapse. To hit something. But instead, you stood perfectly still, because if you moved, you would break down. If you made a sound, you’d never stop crying. 

Something about your reaction, or lack thereof, had Kyle changing his tune. When he realized you weren’t going to beg or break, he backpedaled. He said he’d work on it. That he’d fix himself. That he wanted to try, rebuild trust, do better. You were his best friend, he said. The person who knew him best. The one he couldn’t imagine life without.

Like a fool, you said okay, to more time, to a second chance. You needed more time, your life was built into his. Dishes, linens, Netflix accounts. You were entangled, and the idea of untangling everything while grieving felt an impossible task. You still wanted him to fight for it, to realize the enormity of what was at stake. You didn’t want to walk away angry. And you didn’t want your story to end like this. 

But you had already learned this lesson from the ghosts of relationships past: When a man shows you who he is, believe him.

You were fighting to be loved by someone who’d already stopped loving you. Who couldn't even say he was sorry for the biggest of mistakes. That told you everything you needed to know about Kyle.

Turns out he just wasn’t the man for you after all. 

Father’s Day came, but it would always live in your mind as D-Day.

All the boys were there. The backyard filled with heat and grill smoke, the table lined with beer bottles sweating in the sun. There was music, laughter, the usual rhythm of family gatherings at John's. Their warmth, his tension, everyone pretending there wasn’t blood in the water.

But you could smell it on you.

After an hour or two, the questions started circling, quietly whispered behind sunglasses. A sideways glance. A question disguised as a joke. 

You busied yourself in the kitchen to escape. Scrubbing pots that didn’t need scrubbing, organizing utensils that were already neat. Anything to give your hands something to do, anything to keep your mouth from opening and unleashing the storm.

You heard your name behind you, John’s voice, laced with affection and pride. “I told you to call me Dad,” he said low, nudging you with his elbow, eyes bright and crinkled at the edges with that warm, content glow he wore at family events. “It’ll be official soon enough anyway.”

A bullet to the brain would’ve been kinder. You smiled and nodded politely without showing your teeth. There's no way the smile reached your eyes, so you kept them down.

“You’re already part of this family. There’s never been a more handsome couple than you two,” he went on, totally oblivious to the sad sour of your spirit. “I knew from the second I met you Kyle would be a good fit.”

You nodded again, hands shaking as you fixated on wiping down a perfectly clean counter. Anything to distract from the feelings you were desperate to conceal. You held it together, like the multiple breaths you were holding.

“Come help me grab some more beer from the garage, darling,” he said, already heading out.

You followed silently, grateful for the change of topic. Maybe if you kept moving, the pain would stay behind as well.

But as soon as the door to the garage clicked shut behind you, he turned. The look in his eyes changed like a light flicking off. The warmth was gone. In its place, concern.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?”

You shook your head, but he stepped closer. “Look at me.”

You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to say it. You didn’t want to say his son had broken your heart. That you’d been living in a lie for weeks. That the life he once proudly imagined for you was already crumbling to dust before your eyes.

But his finger under your chin forced you to look up. And the moment your eyes met his, the dam cracked and the tears flowed.

The words wouldn’t come, but the sobs did. Your legs gave out, folding in on yourself to the ground. He caught you, held you steady, pulling you to his solid chest. His shirt smelled like smoke and sun bleached cotton. He didn’t speak. Just held you, hands smoothing down your hair, and let you cling to him as you fell apart. This was it, the middle of the end. 

When you could breathe again, you coughed it out, “He cheated on me.”

John went still. All over. But to your surprise, he only pulled you tighter. His heartbeat pounded in your ears, subconsciously beckoning you to a less anxious state.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said softly. His voice was calm, but there was steel in it. “That’s… disappointing. To say the least.” With your head tucked under his chin, he nuzzled into your hair and inhaled deeply. 

You sniffled, letting yourself sink further into him. The emotional weight was almost gone from your body, but leaving behind all that ache and break.

“Is he leaving you?” he asked after a moment.

You shrugged, “I gave him the opportunity, but he doubled down. Said he’d change. I don’t know if I believe him, though.” You took a massive shaky breath, “He didn’t even apologize. Didn’t even admit it was wrong.”

You could feel the heat building behind his silence and the tension in his jaw as he ground his teeth. You couldn’t tell if he was angrier about the cheating or the fact that Kyle hadn’t even owned it.

“I’m going to talk to him,” John said.

“No—” you pulled away to look at him, but he raised a hand. The same hand cupped your cheek and with his thumb he wiped a tear, silencing you.

“I’m going to talk to him,” he repeated. He helped you up and you did as told, too exhausted to argue. “Go upstairs, have some privacy in my room, and drink some water.”

It was the first thing that felt easy all month—disappearing up the stairs and into the bathroom with a box of tissues, leaving the events of the world to unfold by themselves outside the door. 

And as you sipped water alone, your limbs heavy, your face wet, your heart hollow, you thought:

Kyle was John’s son first and foremost. And I was never really their daughter. Not now. Not ever.

You didn’t know what John was saying to Kyle or what he was going to do. You just let the sound of the running tap carry you like a tide out to sea. The back door slamming broke you from your disassociation and you turned the tap off, unsure of how much time had lapsed and water wasted. 

Kyle’s voice, sharp and bitter, echoed through the halls. Accusing. Blaming. “I can’t believe you let her ruin Father’s Day,” he shouted loud enough for you to hear. John's reply came at a more appropriate volume and was thus inaudible to you. Then the thud of footsteps heading toward the front door. Kyle just…left.

You heard Simon’s voice downstairs, tinged with concern,“Should I go after—”

“Don’t.” John snapped his answer before the question was completed. 

“He messed up,” John started. “And I wouldn’t be a good father if I didn’t do something about it.”

You pressed your fingertips to your temple, eyes burning all over again. You did this. All because you couldn't keep it together and broke down.

“He betrayed a member of this family,” John continued, voice steady and clear. “Now, I know I was never the most present father. Or the best husband. That’s why yer mums left, and I’ll take the blame for that; I missed too much and was gone too often. But I was never unfaithful to either of them. Because when you make someone your partner, your person—thats the job.”

The room below stayed quiet.

“I hoped I’d raised you boys to be better. To be more capable husbands. Men who show up. Who take care of their women, with integrity. Kyle may be my son and maybe I failed you both. But his actions…Unacceptable.”

His tone turned a shade softer. “Johnny,” he said, directly addressing the Scottsman. “If this muppet,” pointing at his eldest, Simon, “ever drops the ball on you, I’ll go to bat for you the same way. You’re both men. And it’s expected that you act that way. Be good to each other and for each other.”

Not long after, the two men bid John an awkward farewell and exited too. Leftovers packed into foil. Bottles cleared. A silent promise in every step not to make things harder than they already were. Simon would have hugged you on his way out, Johnny would have kissed your cheek. But you hid like a coward upstairs, but grateful that no one came looking for you.

But John did.

You were still in the bathroom, surrounded by tissues, eyes red and raw, your chest hollow.

He stepped into the doorway and didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, looking at you like he was taking stock of what was left of the girl who used to light up his backyard with laughter.

“Did you hear what I told the rest of the lads?” he asked quietly.

You nodded.

“Good,” he said. “I meant it.”

He didn’t ask if you were okay. Instead, he ushered you downstairs to eat something, insisted you sit and put something in your body that wasn’t grief. You didn’t have the appetite, but you chewed. You swallowed. It was the closest thing to functional you’d felt in weeks.

When it was time to go, he drove you home.

You hesitated, not sure if you were ready to face him. “Kyle will be there?”

“I doubt he will,” John said, calm but firm. “And you don’t need to worry. That’s why I’m here. To keep things civil. To keep tempers and tears in check.”

In the car, he spoke again with a quiet sort of weariness. Like he was unspooling his heart one thread at a time, after being wound too tight. “He needs to man up,” he said. “Either be ready to spend the rest of his life making this up to you, or be man enough to end the relationship before he does more damage.”

You nodded. Tears clung to your waterline, reflecting the city as you passed it by.

“Part of me thinks he’s acting out because of me,” John continued. “Maybe with me and his mum not together anymore, it shook something loose in him.”

You listened to John rationalize and volunteer to assume some of the blame. He felt responsible for all of this. He wanted you two together so much. This was either inevitable or completely avoidable, but either way, beyond his control. But you’d never know if you didn’t try.

When you arrived, Kyle wasn’t home. John killed the engine and didn't move for a moment. Then turned to you. “Don’t wait up for him,” he said gently. “Might be a couple days.”

“I guess I’ll start packing,” you murmured. A new reality was setting in. 

He reached over to pat you on the knee before taking your hand in his. “Don’t kick yourself out without a plan, alright? You’ve got time. You’ve got options. If you don’t have a place by the end of the month… come stay with me.” 

That broke you a little. It hurt in a way that healed and you almost started crying all over again.

He hugged you goodbye as if it might be the last. Squeezing you tight as if it could fuse your broken pieces back together. Held you like he would keep you whole, even if you weren’t.

“I’m sorry, my sweet girl,” he whispered into your hair, fingers brushing back and forth. “You deserve better. He was lucky to have you. We all were. And none of this—none of it—is your fault.”

Tossed to you like a lifeline, you latched onto his words in hopes that one day they would lead you back to yourself. Every heartbreak taught you something. They were the lessons of lesser men—to prepare you so you’d recognize something better when you found it.

Kyle came back the next day.

Still no apology. Just the soft thud of keys on the counter and a sigh that sounded like empty and tired resignation. He looked at you and said nothing. Then later, awkwardly, he told you he couldn’t keep doing this. And that was it. He finally found the words you’d been waiting for. The ones that unknotted your throat and snapped the tether of false hope for good.

After that, he was… nicer.

He stopped punishing you for his own unhappiness. Stopped avoiding your gaze like he couldn’t stomach the sight of you. You insisted on trading nights on the couch. On weekends, you uncoupled like business partners, dividing what was once a shared life with the quiet efficiency of two people too tired to fight.

The air fryer went with him. The good baking sheets stayed with you. Pots to him. Pans to you. You typed up a list so neither of you had to talk about it again. Two weeks later, the apartment no longer felt like your home—just a container. A place to stack boxes. A place to survive until the calendar caught up with you.

Three years, reduced to labeled cardboard and bubble wrap. Your life in categories. Plates wrapped in old t-shirts. Keepsakes and photographs in shoeboxes. A drawer full of mismatched chargers and pens you couldn’t quite bring yourself to throw out. Every object was infused with memory, even the mundane ones.

Divorced, never married. The kind of breakup that doesn’t involve lawyers or paperwork, just the aching ritual of untangling toothbrushes and towels. A separation that leaves no public record, but all the wreckage.

You thought you were doing okay. Not great, but functioning. Until the knock at the door a week later. John. Unannounced—but not unwelcome. He stood there in his fitted t-shirt, holding a takeaway coffee in one hand and a small paper bag of treats in the other. Your mouth watered.

“Just checking in on you,” he said, stepping inside to the kitchen. “How’s the house hunting going?”

Unable to hide your exasperation from him, you sighed, “I’ve toured two places. Both got bought out from under me. The market’s brutal right now.”

He nodded, the quiet kind of agreement that only confirmed your frustrations.

“Besides that,” you added, “things are better now. Easier, I guess. Now that the Band-Aid’s been ripped off, we can stop hurting each other.”

John frowned at you. “Don’t say that,” he replied. “You never hurt him.”

You opened your mouth to deflect, but he cut you off before you could.

“He was unfair to you. And I understand why you don’t want to cause a fight while you’re under the same roof, but someone needs to say it plainly. You’re a victim in this. And just because he hurt himself in the process doesn’t absolve what he did to you.” 

The words struck like a match in your chest, blinding and sharp at once. 

You blinked fast, but he was already stepping closer, offering no room for argument. “It doesn’t mean you have to spend one more second trying to fix him. That’s his job now. His responsibility. Not yours. You don’t owe him anything anymore.”

“Thanks, John,” you murmured as you deflated. “I… I really needed to hear that.” You finally found the strength to take a sip of the coffee he brought you. The pastries were good too, the perfect comfort food.

You hadn’t told many people of your break up. Just your mom, and even that had gone sideways. She’d blamed you in the way only mothers who haven’t done their healing can. Said you should’ve tried harder, let him be the man. Said you must have emasculated him somehow. Said maybe if you hadn’t been so opinionated, so capable, so much, he wouldn’t have strayed.

What a crock of shit. 

You told John that, but he didn’t laugh. Didn’t agree or disagree. Just reached for your hand and held it. Big, calloused fingers wrapping around yours. A gesture that said you’re not alone.

“I know your dad’s no longer with us,” he said softly. “But if there’s anything you need—anything at all. I want you to come to me. I’ll help you move, I’ll build furniture, I’ll hang shelves and pictures, all that.”

Your heart swelled three sizes that day. Dad's were like that, showing up with simple words and actions that went the extra mile. Quiet and consistent care. 

“I meant what I said. You’ve always been part of this family. And I’m not letting go of you anytime soon.” He squeezed your fingers tighter in promise.

At least he wasn’t going to abandon you too. Not yet.

The end of the month arrived like a slow-moving storm. Visible over the horizon, forewarned, expected, and yet still you were unprepared. It came with tension in your chest and panic in your pulse. Every morning you refreshed listings. Every afternoon, you toured what amounted to more heartbreak: peeling laminate floors, water-stained ceilings, windows sealed shut with paint older than your parents’ divorce. Crumbling infrastructure masked with the illusion of “urban charm.” Rent raised for no reason except that someone could get away with raising it.

You started to hate landlords. Not personally, conceptually, like an invasive species. They hoard buildings like dragons hoard gold, letting them rot away unoccupied while regular people scramble for housing. No charm, no grace, just greed and gouging. 

You were getting desperate. You started measuring rooms you didn’t like, pretending you could love them just so you’d have a place to go. Just so you could leave Kyle behind, even if it meant settling for four beige walls and a leaky pipe.

So when the next listing popped up—an affordable studio with “tons of character” and suspiciously cropped photos—you sent it with a message to John. 

“Can you come with me to this one? I don’t know what to make of it.”

His reply came fast.

━━━ ✧₊∘

“Absolutely not.” 

The two of you didn't get five feet into the place before John levied his final judgement and ushered you back out.

You didn’t ask questions. Not until he pulled up in front of a contemporary building nestled between two much older ones. The exterior gleamed with glass and iron, the inside grounded in wood and exposed stone. A perfect marriage of new and old London style.

“I wasn’t going to show you this,” he said, as you unbuckle your seatbelt, your brows knitting in confusion. “But you’re not going to be squatting in some condemned shoebox just because the market’s shite.”

He had a key and your curiosity peaked. Was this a military safehouse? No, it was too fancy for military housing. Inside, the elevator hummed softly. The air smelled clean and new. On the way up, he stood close to you, near enough that you could feel the warmth of him, like a hearth just out of reach.

He led you down a quiet hall and unlocked the door to a unit on the third floor. The moment it opened, you inhaled the scent of possibility: fresh paint, plaster dust, new carpet. The place looked finished at first glance. The floors were smooth and warm-toned, paper still taped across them to protect against contractor traffic. The kitchen was brand new; open concept, soft-close drawers, a butcher block countertop and brass fixtures that shined in their newness. A narrow hallway lead to a bathroom that still smelled faintly of tile grout and a single sunlit bedroom.

You turned slowly, the way someone turns in a dream when they know the ending is about to change.

“You’ll stay here,” he said from behind you, as he inspected books and crannies with approval. “I’ll have everything wrapped up in about a week, then we can get you moved in.”

You blinked. “It’s perfect. But… what’s the rent?”

He shrugged. “Whatever you can afford.”

That made your stomach twist.

“I did this for all my kids,” he continued, voice firm. “When I left field work, I started buying properties. Fixing them up. Making sure they had a place to land if things ever went sideways. When Simon and Johnny got together, I gave them a place—Simon pays rent, and I just stash it away. Kyle too. Same deal.”

Something clicked. “So that’s why I wasn't allowed to pay rent before,” you said.

He nodded, “You were family. Still are.”

You walked up to the window in the living space, your voice quieter now. “You bought this after Kyle and I moved in together?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Figured it might come in handy for the grandkids one day.”

The words fell over you like a weighted blanket, it was a heavy confession. Not everything ends in bitterness, but this debacle left John alone with nothing but dreams and wishful thinking. He wanted to leave a lasting legacy, and thought it was within reach not too long ago.

“But it’s worked out kind of perfect, hasn’t it?” he said. “There’s a doorman, and an elevator. It's a solid and clean building. But the expectation is this: if anything breaks, leaks, rattles, squeaks, or breathes funny, you call me. Got it?”

You laughed, an actual laugh, real and bright in your throat. 

“Okay, dad,” you teased. The word slipped out before you could think. But it felt right, that's why you said it. 

His smile in response could clear the stormiest of clouds from the sky. He felt sunshine rise in his soul, proof that he was doing the right thing. That feeling made everything worth it. Every struggle, every mission, every nightmare, every piece of paperwork. 

The week after next, he moved you in. It only took a day. John worked all day without complaint, knees popping while lifting boxes with relative ease and expertly assembling furniture. But you knew he'd pay for it later, so you insisted on making most tasks a two person job. Together you got the kitchen put together first, unpacked the essentials. Hung curtains. Plugged in lamps. Stacked books. Took the grief from the last three years in cardboard, and shoved it deep into the back of the closet.

By nightfall, the place felt liveable. Not a home yet, but one day it would feel lived in.

He stood in the middle of your new kitchen, wiping the furrow of concentration from his brow with his hands. Then he looked at you like he always did, and beamed with the satisfaction of a job well done.

“This is it,” you said finally. “A new leaf.”

“When one door closes…,” he echoed. “A new one opens,” he finished with the closing of a cupboard.

You leaned against the counter. “What now?”

He looked at his watch, calculating options. 

“Now,” he said, “we go out and celebrate,” with a smile.

It wasn't two days before you had to call him back.

“Miss me already darling?” he joked, his sly smile crooked, toolbag in hand. He knelt down beside the sink cabinet, shoulders dipping into the shadows, and unzipped the rugged bag. 

“Something’s not screwed on tight enough or there's a bad seal probably,” you suggested.

“I was rushing,” he muttered, half to himself. “Didn’t get the inspector in before you moved in. This is my fault. Sorry, sweetie.”

“It’s okay,” you sang, hopping on top of the kitchen island across from the sink, bare feet brushing against the cool cabinet doors below. “I’m just glad I caught it before it turned into something bigger.”

He didn’t answer right away, too focused on analyzing the plumbing. You watched him work, chin in hand. There was something soothing about the way he moved; efficient, quiet, entirely sure of what he was doing. Like the world could crumble and he’d still know exactly what tool to reach for.

The hem of his shirt lifted just slightly when he leaned back underneath the sink. There, at the edge of his waistband, a trail of dark hair disappeared beneath the fabric. Something you didn’t mean to notice and didn’t mean to keep looking at. 

Your eyes caught on the trail of hair again, and the flash of a holiday in Brighton returned to you. Last summer with the family, everyone was bare chested in the heatwave. John and Simon carried the cooler across the shore. It wasn't anything you hadn't seen before. John’s back was freckled and uneven, caught in that precarious balance between a farmer’s tan and the pink flare of an oncoming burn on his shoulders. His chest was broad, hard muscle cast in softness, like a man accustomed to a life of hard labor.

Your mind caught on the image for half a second too long before you blinked and looked away. And a different kind of heatwave rose in your face. You didn’t think about the curve of his arms and chest, dusted with hair and caught in the glow of sunlight. You didn’t think about the happy trail. You shouldn't be thinking about John—your ex's dad—like that at all. 

“Hand me that wrench, darling,” he said, muffled under the counter. “Big grabby claw-looking one.”

“All wrenches look like that, John,” you whined, hopping down to sift through his bag.

“This one doesn’t look like the rest,” he called back. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

He was right. You handed the apparatus to him with haste, and he took it with a quiet hum of thanks. You stayed seated on the ground between him and the bag in case he needed something else. The pipe made a soft squeak as it seated back into place, the metal groaning as it found its fit.

Shortly after, he closed the cabinet, wiped his hands clean, and stood again. You were already pulling ingredients from the pantry.

“Wanna stay for dinner? The stove could catch fire next and I don't know where the fire extinguisher is,” you joked.

He tilted his head. “I wasn’t going to say no to your cooking, but now I feel like I have to stay,” he finished with a wink.

You nodded, pulling out a pot. Dinner was simple, pasta and garlic bread from the freezer. A bottle of wine was opened with more enthusiasm than skill on your part. The two of you sat across from one another at the small dining table, legs brushing now and then underneath your tiny bistro style dining table.

The way he ate told you that John didn't eat much earlier. His fork clinked against the plate like he was short on time before slowing to a reasonable pace. He let out a quiet sigh between bites, the kind of satisfied sound that made your heart purr with pride.

“So,” he said, between mouthfuls. “Tell me about your day—before the sink threw a wrench in it.”

You smiled and giggled at his little dad joke, leaning back in your chair, twisting the stem of your wine glass between your fingers. “Not much to report…umm… I picked out a rug.”

He raised a brow. “Exciting stuff.”

“It’s blue,” you went into deeper detail than necessary, mock-serious. “Well, mostly blue. Has those tasseled edges that I’ll definitely trip on in the middle of the night.”

“A hazard,” he nodded solemnly. “That makes two of you and counting in this place.”

“And it’ll match the flammable throw pillows being delivered tomorrow.”

He laughed. You swore you saw it in his mustache first—how it tried to resist something as childish as laughter. With another sip, warmth bloomed in your chest that wasn’t only from the wine. It was the way he looked at you when you spoke, like he enjoyed hearing about the small stuff, and how these conversations often communicated a secondary sacred meaning.

Things lulled after that. Finishing your own food, you watched him for a moment; the movement of his hand as he drank from his glass, the faint shadows of age and history at the corners of his eyes, the way his presence managed to reign in the chaos around him without even trying. It was as easy as breathing for him. It was the comfortable kind of silence that only exists between two people who don’t need to fill the silence to feel full. 

After dinner, he helped you stack the dishes in the sink, which—mercifully—no longer leaked. He told you again to call him if anything broke, rattled, leaked, or otherwise disturbed your peace.

When you thanked him, he kissed the side of your head before leaving, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was for you both.

Then the door shut behind him, and the apartment fell into silence again. You stood there in your new kitchen, a little tipsy, and the scent of him still hanging in the air, smoke and soap.

━━━ ✧₊∘

“So your ex’s dad just gave you an apartment?”

The sentence landed like a drink slammed on a bar top. You could feel your friend, Hannah, leaning in already, waiting.

You rolled your eyes and took a sip of whatever they ordered you. “Well…I do pay the bills.”

Hannah lifted a brow, “But he’s your landlord?”

“And my repair man, if it’s something he knows how to fix,” you added with a shrug, wishing the ice in your glass was more interesting than their nosy expressions.

“But he also helped you move in?” Hannah asked, unaware that she was leading an interrogation now.

“Yeah,” you said, leaning back into your seat, warmth crawling up your throat that had nothing to do with the alcohol. “He put my bed together, took me out for drinks after, said it was the least he could do since his son wasted my time, cheated on me, and—direct quote—ruined his chances at becoming a grandfather while he still has both his original kneecaps.”

That had both girls rolling. You watched them laugh through the rim of your glass, trying not to smile too smugly. Hannah wiped her eyes and Chloe looked physically pained.

“I wish all dads were like that,” Chloe finally managed.

Hannah said, “Yeah—they’d make up for every male-related heartbreak.”

There was a beat of silence after that. Not heavy, just soft. Like all three of you were suddenly aware of how rare it was to be looked after like that. Hannah reached for your hand under the table, squeezed once.

“He told me,” you hesitated, focused on swirling the drink in your hand, “that if Kyle and I had gotten married, he would’ve walked me down the aisle. Because my dad isn’t here anymore.”

Chloe’s face dropped. “Oh honey…”

“I miss him, my dad.”

“Kyle’s dad really shipped you two,” Hannah murmured.

You smiled, but it wavered. “He did. He set us up. But—he also told me something I didn’t know,” you trailed off into a whisper. The two friends leaned in, “After they had Kyle, they almost had a little girl. But there was a miscarriage.” Their eyes widened. “I don’t think any of the boys know,” you added. “John takes being a ‘Boy Dad’ so seriously, like it’s his only real job now. But I think… deep down, he always wanted a daughter.”

Hannah pressed a hand to her chest, “I’m going to cry.” She started fanning her face with her other hand.

“Well now he’s basically adopted you,” Chloe said softly.

You shrugged. “Maybe. He’s divorced now. Maybe he’ll remarry and finally get daughters to spoil. Soon enough he'll forget about me.”

There was a pause. You stared into the flickering candle at the center of your table, eyes glazed with the essence of your first drink.

“I love him,” you said under your breath, like it was just another truth on the table. “I really do.”

As if on cue, a collection of shots was delivered to your table. Your next round, and the real reason you three gathered tonight.

“To breakups,” I volunteered for a toast.

“Yikes,” Chloe shuttered after you all collectively took a first shot. Yet, she was first to raise her second shot for another cheers, this time, “To daddy issues.”

Down the hatch with a grimace. It was Hannah who choked on the liquor with a yikes of her own, before raising her third and final shot. “To rebounding.”

“Yikes,” you croaked, completing the trifecta of exclamations.

The three of you laughed until your cheeks hurt, and your ribs ached, and someone spilled water, and the table dissolved into chaos. The rest of the evening dissolved in your mind with an easy haze of warm bodies beside you, glitter stuck to your skin, and music reverberating in your feet. You remembered brushing your teeth by feel, eyelids too heavy to lift. 

The words had come easy tonight, more so acceptance than revelation. The feelings flowed likewise, but as muddied waters. You were sure they had always been there, but the kind feelings, the nature of them—you weren't quite sure.

Rub it in, why don’t you.

What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

━━━ ✧₊∘

Johnny’s birthday went surprisingly well. No one batted an eye when you approached the birthday boy first, kissed him on the cheek, handed over his present, and settled into your old place on the couch. There were moments of awkward silence, sure, but nothing dramatic happened. 

To be honest, the whole event was awkward as hell. 

What used to be “same-same, but different,” now just felt “different-different.” It was alien, a twisted nightmare of Twilight Zone proportions. Everyone was on their best behavior, fussing over Johnny and Simon, trying not to devolve at the onslaught of base instincts and unresolved issues. You know it was a ticking time bomb, and it only takes one to light a fuse.

It’s been three months since your split with Kyle, but you were proud of your composure, closure, and the distance you had found yourself with. To the outsiders, you all seemed like a proper blended family. But all families had their problems.

That’s when Kyle walked in with his new girl. No, it was not the girl he cheated on you with, it was a different one. 

Sometimes you gotta let a man make his own mistakes. You were just grateful you didn't have to stand by Kyle’s side while he continued to make them. Being in that girl's shoes was a job you did not envy. Which is why you wished her the best of luck and love, treating her with hospitality and respect. Thankfully, you managed to avoid any questions about how you knew the family and she didn’t seem to know who you were to these people.

Best to keep it vague: a friend of the family.

You helped Kyle's mom smooth things over with food, second helpings, and a lot of careful not-looking—on both yours and John's part. The man that Kyle’s mom introduced was very nice and down to earth, but in a way distinct from John. There wasn’t anything to dislike, or cause concern, or find irritable. He was just a person, like we all were, hoping for a second shot at happiness in life. 

After dessert, you locked eyes with John. He understood the signal and announced his exit, claiming tired bones, a full belly, and that he was taking you home. You stood up accordingly, both making your goodbyes, and followed him out.

When he pulled into your parking garage, he didn’t unlock the vehicle right away. Just looked at you across the cab of the car.

“Need a fuckin drink,” he grumbled.

You let out a sigh, “Me too.”

Rain had started to fall, light but insistent. You grabbed your umbrella and followed him into it, feet splashing through shallow puddles as he led you around the corner to a dim little pub with honey-colored lighting and music humming through the bricks.

The first drink went down smooth. So did the second. By the time his third arrived, his shoulders had started to sink a little lower, but you could tell, he was all storm brewing in there. So you took up the mantle of lightening the mood with your rambling:

“Chloe face-timed me last night while I was stress-baking. Well I didn’t realize I’d gone a bit overboard because we were talking about other things. Chloe’s still trying to get me off the apps,” you continued. “She keeps sending me guys who look like they eat chalk for breakfast. Anyways, between feeding my sourdough starter, and my second round of loaves to rise, we started spitballing names for my starter. The front runners are Lilith, Odette, Gretel—” 

He chuckled, but it felt forced and strangled. 

“—and my personal favorite, Philomena.” 

“You’re asking my opinion on naming a loaf of bread? Don't I need to taste it first to properly decide?”

“Technically, she’s not a loaf of bread and never will be. But at the same time, she is—in the sense that I cut parts of her off and bake those. It’s Theseus’ ship, except the ship regenerates itself. So even if there’s just one splinter left for me to feed and water—”

“You’d tell me if you were seeing someone, right?” he asked bluntly.

You blinked while processing the abrupt transition from dating to focaccia and back to dating again. It wasn’t until later you’d realize that’s not really why he was asking, but you answered the question in the moment.

“Yeah. I mean… I’ve been on a couple first dates just to shake off some nerves. Nothing worth mentioning.” You shrugged. “It’s hard for me to be single again, dating apps and clubs aren’t my thing. I’m more comfortable with word-of-mouth recommendations from people.”

He raised a brow, “Like I did with Kyle?”

You snorted, “Exactly.” Pausing to take a drink, then, “What a twat.”

He sighed into his glass, “I wasn't going to say it.”

“And you shouldn't, you're still a good dad. It's one of the last redeeming qualities you have,” you giggled.

He looked down at his glass, swirling the amber. “I’m really sorry about him. I mean it. I thought you were it, the final puzzle piece. You made our family better, fuller.”

Fingers clutched your drink harder, words and feelings stuck inside.

He added, “You deserve a big family. One that celebrates you. Not fractured birthdays and holiday tension.”

“You’re forgetting—my parents were divorced before my dad died,” you corrected. “So trust me, I know from experience that divorce equals spoiled children and double the Christmas presents.”

“You’re not spoiled,” he asserted quietly. 

It was your turn to raise a brow in protest.

“You were… provided for. Loved, and it shows. You’re perfect.”

A nervous laugh escaped you. “Yeah, well, try dating after that. Once you’ve been treated right, the bar’s high—too high. Love bombing doesn’t work. Ghosting won’t cut it. Men think I’m expecting too much.”

“You’re not,” he said, a soft truth.

You finished your second drink as another landed on the table. He was already on his sixth, working his way through a bottle at this point.

You leaned back, “You know… for all his bullshit, Kyle wasn’t that bad. We just didn’t fit together anymore.”

“His mother and I didn’t, either,” John said bleakly, tracing the rim of his glass. 

“Well then, we’re both hopeless rejects.” Turning to him, you mused, “They say it takes two months for every year of your long-term relationship for you to get over someone.” Lifting your drink at him, “So I’m halfway there.”

He groaned and clinked your glass with his. You chuckled at his displeasure.

“Guess I’ve got three years left on my sentence,” he said.

Cringing, you realized your mistake, “Oof. That wasn’t funny. I’m sorry—” You reached out and started rubbing his shoulder, like you were trying to erase your words. Trying to find a silver lining, you considered what kind of woman would catch John Price's eye.

“They also say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,” you offered.

But that wasn’t received well either, he groaned louder and moved the topic back to you. “Please don’t start hitting on more older men to see if they have eligible sons.”

Grinning, you countered, “Why not? It's good networking and it worked out pretty well the first time.”

“Didn’t you learn anything from that silly boy?”

“I did,” you said, tone softening. “I still want what Kyle and I talked about. Loyalty, communication, and respect. But I can’t make a guy hold up his end of the bargain, even if I do find someone who says he’s on board. I want someone whose actions match their words.”

He turned his head and looked at you for a long moment, “Have you always been this wise?”

You rolled your eyes. “I came out the womb a fully formed sage, John. I’m not so much different from when I met you. I’m just that much closer to calling it quits and joining a convent now,” turning to him with a delusional smile.

John looked down, thumb tracing the edges of a coaster. “You know, you’re not the first woman I’ve known to swear off men altogether.”

Tilting your head, you smiled, “No? Were the others you dated as charmingly jaded as me?”

He chuckled softly, “No, but she didn’t make it sound like such a loss.”

You took a slow sip of your drink. “I think I just peaked too early. Used up all my patience on a starter marriage that never happened.” You meant it to sound light, but it didn’t land that way. You sounded defeated. Maybe that’s how you felt too.

“Hey,” he said, low and serious now. He looked at you, really looked—like he could see the echo of every version of you that had been let down and kept loving anyway. Then he lifted a hand slowly and brought it to the back of your head, gently shifting your eyes to meet his. “You didn’t waste anything. Loving someone like that… that’s not time lost. It’s a treasure.” His thumb brushed across your scalp, twice—then lingered in your hair before trailing down like an afterthought he didn’t want to let go of.

That was when the bartender came up with the water and offered a menu. Then his hand returned to him, like it had never touched you to begin with. One glance at John’s flushed cheeks and the look in your eyes made it clear you both were having a bad night. She was going to keep John’s keys or stop serving if you didn’t order something. John almost ordered, but you gestured to her to close the tab.

“No more,” you asserted. “Come on.”

“You cutting me off?” John prodded.

“No,” you said, standing. “I’m taking you home.”

You walked him back to your place, pulled close with an arm looped in his. Just in case he tried to make a run for it—not that you had any reason to expect that from his other drunken states you’ve witnessed. He was always shockingly sober, regardless of the amount of alcohol consumed. John and his boys could probably tank an entire pub, just the four of them. Heavy weights, all of them. 

He blinked, semi-sober thoughts rising to the surface. “I can sleep in my car.”

You gave him a look, with an eye roll, and one eyebrow arched so high it asked if you brought snacks because the munchies were hitting. “I'm not letting you get behind the wheel, even just to sleep. You’re staying on my couch.” You hoped that would be the end of the discussion but…

“I’m fine to—”

“Two words: back pain. And one more: hypothermia. I will out-dad you into submission, Johnathan Michael Price.” The full name alone hung like a threat and a lullaby in one. He let the issue drop after that.

At your door, he kicked off his shoes as usual and you took his wet jacket to hang up. Having accepted his fate, he lowered himself onto the couch with a tired grunt. He looked around like he wasn’t quite sure how he got here—or maybe he just didn’t recognize how tired he really was. 

“You're too sweet," he muttered with a smirk tugging half-heartedly at his lips. 

“I’m not sweet. I’m efficient,” you deflected his tipsy complement.

“You are,” he said, more serious now, eyes following you as you laid extra bedding across his lap. “But I’m supposed to be taking care of you," he said pointedly.

You hummed. “You do take care of me, John. But who's going to take care of you when you need it?" you said, words blunt but hands continuing their gentle touch arranging pillows and blankets for him.

“You shouldn’t have to take care of me, baby girl,” he said eventually, voice rough from something more than just whiskey. “I’m not that old. I want to take care of you, not the other way around.” 

“Well, you can take care of me,” you offered, bringing him a glass of water and anti-inflammatory meds next, “by making breakfast tomorrow, okay?”

He grunted in response after taking the medicine and water without a fight. Small victories. You lingered a moment before retreating to your room, watching his form melt into the cushions; half-asleep, head falling down, giving up the fight. It was a rare moment where his guard is almost entirely down, and he's just John. Not a father or a soldier. Just a man, who feels heartbreak like the rest of us, you thought. 

Later, alone in your bed, your mind wandered. The thoughts continued to swirl as you lay on your back, waiting for sleep to release the tension of the day from your body.

The question he’d asked you earlier about dating still rattled around in your brain. At least Kyle had given you an answer, even if it was the kind you didn’t want to hear. But John had been blindsided, ambushed, and left to face the collapse of his family pretty much by himself. For the second time in John’s relationship, it made you sad to see that hurt rise to the surface for him again. 

May that love never find either of us again, you wished, rolling over into the soft embrace of unconsciousness.

In the morning, the smell of eggs and toast pulled you from your sheets. A quick minute in the bathroom later, you walked into the kitchen, barefoot, hair tied up. You skirt around him, brushing the small of his back as you start boiling water for tea.

He exhaled—just a soft breath, but one you felt in your chest.

While you wrapped a loaf of sourdough to send home with him, he watched you like you were something precious. John didn’t say more than a morning greeting, just cracked another egg. His expression soft, settling on your form as you moved, orbiting him like he was a permanent fixture in your kitchen. Basking in the nostalgia of how natural this felt, he thought about how domestic and easy it would be to pretend this was a Sunday morning in a shared life.

He wouldn't think about the butterflies battling in his chest every time you fluttered by, or the way your eyes squished closed when you smiled, or the way they grew wide with excitement when he set your plate in front of you. Maybe that’s what scared him—he craved your company now.

When he set your breakfast in front of you, you felt something shift. A quiet understanding growing stronger with each small gesture. Every time he told you to eat, or rest, or be kinder to yourself. Every time he showed up. You weren’t sure if this was healing or hope, but it felt like the beginning of something.

It reminded you that to be properly fed and watered, like any living thing, was maybe the first step to being loved again. And you could help but notice.

After that he saw you everywhere. In his coffee, in the music on the radio, in the wild flowers of his garden. He would remember a touch here and graze there like it left a scar on his skin from how soft your hands were. The smell of your hair, he loved to touch it and tease you about it knowing that his hands would carry the scent home with him.

He saw you behind his eyelids when he'd close them at night. Images flashed, fantasies. Tame ones; watching you get ready for a dinner date, your face when he delivers your morning tea, painting rooms together, arguing over the thermostat, making soup when you’re sick, packing to go on holiday. These small mundane things were sacred to him. He wanted that, like a fool.

The less tame ones woke him up like night terrors, sweating and heart racing. Body pulsing with need, while shame curled in his chest. Your laugh, the weight of your touch, the feel of your mouth, bubbled beneath his skin. These thoughts and feelings were getting out of hand. 

Because he knew better. You were too young for him. And Kyle—Fuck. You were out of reach and even further out of bounds. A line in the sand he can't afford to cross, because he would lose his son in the process. When he just got him back. John would kill for his family. But he just couldn't envision a future where you weren't a part of his family.

While he managed to keep his lust under lock and key, he continually found himself in the line of fire, putting everything on the edge of ruin. Again and again, he rerouted his days only to find you there. 

You ran into him at the farmers market. That led to him buying you coffee, then he of course offered to drop you off at home instead of schlepping your shopping on foot. Of course assisting with your bags and packages up to your flat. Then he'd blink, the afternoon passed, and you were making dinner for two again. And he promised to host you to dinner next as he left after the sun set. 

No matter how much time you spent together, it never came to a natural ending but it also never felt like either of you overstayed your welcome. Being together never felt like a chore or a troubled knee to exercise, and he never made you feel like a burden. This left you wondering, what would you be to each other if not for Kyle. Would you be friends? Are you friends now?

The next time, he was better. It wasn't raining, so the business lunch he just had was seated outside under the awning. He saw you first. Walking by, sunglasses, hair loose, headphones on, tote bag slung on one shoulder. His hand moved before he could stop it, shooting out over the barrier to grab your wrist before you could pass by. 

“Ah—John! You scared the shit out of me,” you laughed off the fear, clutching your heart with one hand and taking your headphones off and lifting your shades. God, your eyes were beautiful.

“Sorry, dear,” he chuckled at your distress. “But you need to pay more attention to your surroundings. Just wanted to say hello and see how you've been.”

You exchanged the regular small talk, talking over the barrier of the restaurant. Despite hanging on every word that he could coax from your lips, he managed a polite farewell in a more timely fashion. 

The time after that was a nightmare and a daydream. He was meeting with Kate at a place he’d never heard of, in a neighborhood he’d never been to, talking in code over drinks that both parties wish had alcohol in them. 

“You look good, Price. Retire, finally?”

He huffed, “No, still pushing paper and training the next gen of spooks.”

“Well you're not lonely, that's obvious,” she goaded him.

He deflected, “I'm not seeing anyone.”

She squinted at him and leaned back. “You look feral and rested,” she said, as if it displeased her. “Want me to check her out for you?”

“No.” he said too quickly.

“So there is someone,” she hummed with satisfaction.

He shook his head trying to rid himself of the predicament he was in. “She’s good. I'm the problem. It'll never work.”

“You're the most stable you've ever been, and life is short. You should take whatever chance you get,” she lectured. “You've moved on at least, yeah?”

He hesitated. “Aye—,” but the word lodged like a rock in his throat. He stared down at the condensation sliding down his glass. “I’ve ruined everything I’ve ever touched,” he said finally, voice low. “Two divorces, Kate. Different reasons, same result. I was always the constant.” He shook his head once, jaw clenched. “I keep thinking… maybe I’m not meant for that kind of happiness.”

She didn’t speak right away, just put her hand over his.

“I want to do the right thing,” he added. “For once. Something that won’t come back to haunt me.”

Kate’s voice softened, “Does she even know how you feel about her?”

He looked up—just as the bell above the café door rang.

Of course it was you, he cursed. He would recognize you anywhere, blind, deaf, and across vast distances. You were picking up an order. After paying, you turned around and spotted him.

His past and his future colliding.

Your eyebrows shot up and you smiled before noticing he was with someone. That made your jaw drop. It looked like a date, they were holding hands. Not wanting to interrupt, you simply waved at him and flashed an encouraging double thumbs up before exiting with your food. 

Kate turned around to see what John was looking at and caught a glimpse as you walked back out the door.With another satisfied hum, she turned back to face John. “You going to just sit there and be the problem, or are you going to do something about it.”

━━━ ✧₊∘

Feeling deflated, your food didn't appeal to you anymore. So it sat in the fridge, only nibbled at. Unsure of what to call this feeling, but it stung. Was that why he had been distant? It must have been a first date, or he would have told you he was dating, right? 

John had become a solid fixture in your life, you expected his calls and saw each other often, and crossed paths by coincidence even more. If it were any other guy, your friends would be shouting from the mountain tops about the “signs” and “Venus in retrograde”. As if any of that had any influence, positive or negative, on your relationships.

You pulled out Philomena, thinking you could massage these thoughts away with your fingers better than your mind could. Trying not to spiral, you told yourself it was none of your business. If he was seeing someone, he had every right. 

Yet the feelings sat heavy in your stomach like spoiled milk. If he had someone else—what would that mean for you? Slosh. What place would you have in his life anymore? Curdle. Would there be room for you at all? Gurgle. 

You’ve been this before, the soft placeholder until someone else came along. And while you’d gotten good at pretending it didn’t hurt, you’d never gotten better at watching someone walk away. 

The knock caught you mid-knead. For a second, you just sat there, blinking at the door like it had spoken Elvish. You opened it to find John standing there.

“Oh—hi,” you said, casual and too quick. You stepped aside to let him in like you always did, pretending your pulse hadn’t just spiked.

He offered a small nod as he passed you, the silence stretching just long enough to make your stomach tighten.

“How did your date go?” you started, following him into the living room, trying not to sound too eager. 

His jaw ticked and his head whipped toward you faster than expected. “It wasn’t.”

“Oh.” Your face fell a little and moved back into the kitchen to resume your task. “Sorry. You two looked—”

“That was Kate,” he interjected. “My oldest friend. We were colleagues.”

“Oh,” you said again, not sure what to do with your hands. “I didn’t mean to pry. I just—”

“It wasn’t a date.” His voice softened this time, but the emphasis lingered. 

You weren’t sure if you believed him. Despite the modicum of relief you felt, that doubt must have been plastered all over your face. 

He challenged it, “Men and women can be friends, can't they?”

Without looking up, you pushed back on the dough, “That's what we are, right? Friends?”

The question fell into his lap like a loaded weapon—and this was Russian Roulette. Will he ruin everything? Will he flinch? He put his finger on the trigger, closed his eyes, and pulled…

“Aye.” 

The bullet bit, lodging itself in his temporal lobe. The regret was instant, his heart heavy like a stone dropped in the middle of the ocean. Another casualty of war.

The space between you was empty, but in the silence that followed, he filled it.

“I miss you,” his voice soft. He needed to say it. It was the only thing he could say that was close enough to what he truly meant. 

Avoiding his gaze despite the newfound proximity, your voice went monotone. “We see each other all the time,” you dismissed. 

Then prodded, “Is that what you want? More time together?”

Another leaded question, wrapped in steel and hung in the air like an anvil overhead.

“I'll take time with you however I can get it.”

You heard what you needed to hear. It wasn’t the whole truth, but something that tasted close to it. If he was dating someone else, he wouldn’t be here. He also wouldn’t look at you like he was running out of time. And he wouldn’t ask for more time unless he really wanted it.

John watched your shoulders drop, that ever-present coil of tension slowly unwind beneath your skin. Then he left before he could do something stupid. Or maybe, before he could do something more honest. 

The hallway outside was quiet, the building stable. He took the stairs two at a time. Needed the movement, like a punishment. His fists clenched like he needed something to hit, though the only thing he was truly angry at was himself. 

Outside, the cold hit him like punishment. Sharp, honest, bracing. He unzipped his jacket and let it bite.

He’d spent months telling himself that keeping his distance was the right thing to do. That loving you in silence was noble. But standing there, frozen breath curling into the dark, he felt the lie like cancer in his bones.

That wasn’t love. Not the kind you deserved; love without hesitation, 110% effort, someone that steps up and not cowers under the weight of what-ifs. More than anything, you deserved the ability to choose. To love him back and face the consequences together—or not. 

That’s what a good man would do. But he wasn’t strong enough, brave enough, to be that for you.

It had been nine months since D-Day. You honestly didn't think about Kyle that much anymore. You blocked him after Johnny's party. Good riddance. 

It’s been two months since the way John looked at you had begun to shift—subtle at first, like a hand hovering near yours and never quite touching. He tried not to. You tried not to notice. But there was something in the way he lingered longer than he should have when your fingertips brushed during an errand. Something in the quiet when he dropped you off and didn’t drive away right away. Something about the way he asked you to text him that you got home safe if you were going out late with friends. And the way he always seemed to know when you needed him so he could be there.

Tonight, you needed him.

The date had gone wrong before the bread hit the table. His name was Mark, or maybe Matt. He was smug and forgettable, and within twenty minutes, he’d made you feel like an inconvenience. When he leaned in to kiss you, unearned and uninvited, you’d turned your cheek and felt the shift—the moment he decided you weren’t worth the effort. He’d called you high-maintenance under his breath and left you standing stranded in the rain.

You didn’t cry. Not then. Even though you felt pathetic and worthless, sitting on the street like discarded trash. Not that you deserved to feel that way.

You justified it because of your low battery, and you called John.

He didn’t ask questions, just told you to drop a pin. When the truck pulled up, you opened the door before he could put it in park.

“Christ, you’re soaked,” he said, already reaching for one of those microfiber car towels.

You slid into the passenger side, hair dripping, arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to hold your dignity together. You didn't know how cold you were until you felt the warm air inside the cab.

Handing you the towel, you started wringing out your hair and wiping your face. 

“Here—” Reaching up, he pulled off his sweatshirt, revealing a plain T-shirt underneath. You accepted the warm, navy blue lump.

“Thanks,” you sniffled, already kicking off your heels as he started driving. Dragging the sweatshirt over your head. It was warm and worn soft with time. The kind of thing you’d seen him wear on slow mornings and cold rainy days. The collar was slightly stretched and it smelled like clean cotton and cedar.

You turned away modestly and began removing your damp see-through dress from underneath his crew neck. One strap falling down your arm, and the other one soon followed, leaving you in just your underwear. 

He caught the briefest sliver of skin when you moved—just a flash of shoulder, the hint of hip. Another bout of shame crested in his chest.

You tucked your legs up into the oversized garment, knees to your chest, arms in the sleeves wrapped around them, and you looked down to blow warm air through the neckline over your shivering skin. 

His jaw flexed, hands tightening on the steering wheel, cursing God for the weather and whatever plan he had for you that put you in this position. 

“Come close, I'll warm you.” He reached over with one arm around your shoulders and a sense of relief flooded you as you scooted over to mold yourself to his side. You buried your nose into his shoulder, not knowing how cold the feature was. The rest of the drive home he had one hand on the wheel and the other applying steady, gentle friction to your arm until you relaxed. 

You stayed connected like that until he put the car in park. At that point, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Gathering your things, you just wanted to be comfortable so you were just going to walk barefoot up to your door, looking forward to the sensation of stable ground under your feet. 

When John opened the door for you and saw your shoes in your hand he decided otherwise. Before you could climb out yourself, he hooked an arm under your knees and another around your back and pulled you out bridal style. 

“John, I'm fine,” you whined in protest. “I want to walk on my own—plus your back—”

“Not wearing kit, dear. Can handle carrying you to the elevator.” He grunted through gritted teeth, “Not having you step on something and getting hurt.” The sound of the car door slamming shut and locking put an end to the discussion. A minute later, once inside the building, he did ease you down on clean white tile while waiting for the elevator. 

You closed your eyes and inhaled deep until the sound of the ding. Then you opened your eyes and exhaled, stepping in first. He followed you up in silence.

In your flat, while he took off his shoes, he watched you aggressively hit the lights, drop your shoes, dress, and purse on the counter, and then make a beeline for the freezer. After commandeering a pint of ice cream, you wrenched a spoon out of the drawer and passive aggressively closed it. Then he watched you stomp into the living space and turn on your favorite comfort show, before plopping down to sit in the middle of the floor on top of your rug, tear off the lid, and dig into the frozen contents. 

You didn't mind that he was still here. He just stood outside your periphery, giving you space until your shoulders sank ever so slightly. Then he approached and sat beside you, leaning back against the couch.

A pint of melting ice cream between you. It was a chocolate and vanilla swirl—one spoon, passed back and forth. His legs stretched out in front of him, yours tucked under you.

You tried to talk about the date, try to navigate through all the emotions and feelings you were having: rejection, fear, anger, and insecurity. You tried to make it funny and laugh some of the angst off. But your voice cracked somewhere around the third attempt, and the spoon stilled in your hand. 

“I just…” you began, but your throat closed.

He looked over, one arm braced behind him, the other resting on his knee before taking the spoon from you.

You swallowed hard. “I think I’m just tired of being treated like I'm either too good or not good enough.”

His brow furrowed, eyes softening, taking another bite of ice cream. The pint was almost empty.

“I mean—is something wrong with me?” your voice cracked. You pulled your knees up to your chest and buried your face in your arms over top. “I feel unlovable. I'll never be able to make it in a convent like this,” your complaints and desperation muffled by the fabric of the sweatshirt that swallowed you. That's when the tears started flowing, silent, but your sighs and shudders gave you away.

“Stop,” he said gently, and the word landed like a hand on your heart. “C’mere, darling,” he said, already dragging you into his chest. 

It was the second time he's manhandled you tonight but you weren't fighting it anymore. This time you sank into him and laid your ear against his chest listening to his heartbeat, one hand clutched his shirt, and the other wrapped around his lower back. He hushed you and stroked your hair while you calmed down.

“This is so embarrassing,” you croaked. After a few minutes of calm silence, barely above a whisper, you gave him an easy out. “You don't have to stay.”

He reached for your hand on his chest before he could think better of it. His thumb brushed your knuckles. His voice, when it came, was soft and tough like leather, “I'm not leaving you. Ever.”

You felt the promise travel all the way down your spine. Maybe you were just bracing as you always did for disappointment, for the lack of reassurance. The silence grew deeper, thicker, like something coiling in the space between you, ignorant of the fact that you were already curled up in each other. 

He wanted to rewind the night, call you first, have you over for dinner. He hated that he couldn’t shield you from this. If he’d said something sooner, if he’d been braver... The thought made his stomach twist. He couldn’t stand to see you hurting like this, and even worse, he hated the voice in his head whispering that only he could take care of you. That no one else would ever hold you like this and mean it with every cell in their body. He wanted to be the person you turn to, not just when things fall apart, but when they’re beautifully, unbearably good. He wanted to be your home and your hero. The only one that heard your beautiful song. 

Your hand was still enclosed in his, still held against his chest. His thumb traced the back of it in slow, absent circles. You were halfway to falling asleep in the safety and comfort of his arms when he spoke next.

“I feel different when I'm with you,” he confessed, barely above a whisper.

You tilted your head, studying; the lines around his eyes, the quiet set of his mouth, his hair was damp, silver glinting beneath the dim light from the telly and the kitchen. He was so close, eyes unwavering. The only man who’s ever treated you like you mattered. 

His confession made you soften. “I don’t know what you were like before,” you murmured, “but for me? You’ve always been the better man, John.”

You tried to look away, but his palm cupped your face and brought you back. His calloused thumb brushed the apple of your cheek, and the other hand found the small of your back. The rest closed on instinct; your foreheads brushed, noses grazed, and the breath between you broke. Neither of you pulled away. And when your lips finally met, it felt like a truth that had been waiting to be spoken aloud. You were so unsure, thoughts swirling, world upside down. 

His mouth by contrast was warm and sure. The remnants of vanilla and chocolate on your tongues swirled on your taste buds. Electricity ignited in your belly, cutting through the indulgent mix of comfort and sweetness. But then what started small, blossomed between you as you opened up to him. The idea of you (plural) that had you both in the thralls of denial. But it was inevitable.

Something slid and clicked into place, a homecoming written in the stars. You leaned into it, lips tingling from his, and climbed into his lap to bury yourself in the space he made for you. A soft sound escaped the back of your throat, need and relief braided together, and he responded with a low sound of his own, a quiet groan that vibrated you to the core. 

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing harder, your foreheads pressed together, eyes closed. 

No going back now.