Corbin pauses. Then, softly— “I don’t mind. I know how hard you work.”
His eyes scan the apartment. The mismatched dishes. The books stacked in uneven towers. The sketches pinned to the walls. “If I didn’t have cleaners, my house wouldn’t look like it does.”
I laugh, glancing over my shoulder. “You folded my thong, Corbin.”
His lips twitch. “I did.”
“Even without cleaners, your place would still look like a museum.”
His smile lingers. There’s something lighter in the air now. Something almost… familiar. I hate that I miss it.
“Dad!” Tate’s holler cuts through the moment.
Corbin’s eyes lingers on my lips. Then, finally, he turns, following the sound of our son’s voice.
I exhale sharply, gripping the counter, trying to quiet the ache pressing beneath my ribs. Because for a second—just one stupid second—I let myself forget that Corbin isn’t my home anymore.
From the living room, Tate’s eager voice fills the space as he introduces Corbin to all his stuffed animals, and Igor, his robotic snake.
While they talk, I fall into the familiar rhythm of cooking. I boil pasta. Simmer sauce from scratch. Shape meatballs with practiced hands. Toss garlic bread into the oven.
By the time Tate has forced Corbin to memorize every stuffed animal’s name, dinner is ready.
“Tate?” I call. “Can you set the table?”
Corbin pokes his head into the kitchen. “I can do it.”
I motion to the mismatched dishes stacked on the shelf above the sink. Corbin grabs three plates while I dig around for utensils.
It’s... comfortable. Like it used to be. And I don’t know how to feel about that.
Tate talks through the entire meal, his excitement spilling over in waves. He keeps saying how happy he is that Corbin and I are here together. And as I watch him grin from ear to ear, something inside me twists. He’s not an unhappy kid. But this? This feels like joy.
And it makes me wonder—why didn’t we try harder to figure this out for him?
After dinner, Corbin and Tate handle the dishes while I move through the living room, tidying up. I hang coats. Straighten couch pillows. Adjust picture frames on the bookshelf. I hate that I feel so self-conscious about the mess.
Corbin has never made a big deal about my inability to keep things perfect the way he does, but still. What if he’s silently judging me?
“Can Dad read me my bedtime story after my shower?” Tate asks, practically bouncing on his toes. “Dad, you can pick out the book!”
I glance at Corbin. There’s hope in his expression. Too much of it.
So, I nod. “Yeah, of course.”
Tate beams. They disappear down the hall.
I exhale and put the teapot on the stove, pressing a hand to my face. Eventually, Tate will go to bed. And then it will be just Corbin and me. The last time that happened, we wound up in bed together. I can’t let that happen again.
Forty-five minutes later, Corbin steps into the kitchen. “He’s passed out.”
I clutch my mug, my stomach twisting into a tangled knot.
“Do you want some tea?”
A slow smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “This feels like déjà vu.”
Oh. Right. He offered me a drink last night, and then we…
