Professor Blake looks between Rowan, Kai, Sophie, and I, placing his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.
“Oh, sorry, these are my parents,” Rowan explains, gesturing to the three of us. “Mom, Dad, Dad… this is my art history professor.”
Ah, the one Rowan thinks doesn’t like him.
“Nice to meet you,” Kai says, his American accent standing out in the quiet hush of the pub. We all reach out to shake his hand, and he reciprocates, but his eyes don’t leave Rowan’s. He’s young. Early-thirties, if I had to guess. Handsome. He has that brooding professor thing down pat.
“See you in class tomorrow?” Professor Blake says, arching a brow.
“Yes, sir,” Rowan says, cheeks turning pink.
“Nice to meet you all,” he says, his voice low. “Perhaps I’ll see you around as well?”
“Yes, we’re staying for the week,” Sophie adds.
Professor Blake just nods once and looks at Rowan again. “Have a nice night.”
He’s gone before any of us can utter a goodbye, but when I look back at Rowan, he’s staring down at his Guinness with a flustered look. I smirk as I look between Kai and Sophie, who are both trying not to smile.
“That’s the strict one?” I ask, watching Professor Blake walk out the front door of the pub.
Rowan lets out a loud sigh. “Yeah.”
“Hmm,” is my only answer.
Kai’s eyes are twinkling as I look over at him, but none of us say anything else about Professor Blake as the night wears on.
When it’s time to say goodbye to Rowan for the night, we all walk him back to his dorm building. We’re not allowed inside, so we say goodbye at the door.
“I love you. I’ll see you after class tomorrow, okay?” I murmur, placing my hands on Rowan’s shoulders. He’s nearly as tall as me now—and with wavy light brown hair and blue eyes, he looks the part of my biological son, despite being adopted.
“Okay, Dad. Love you too.”
Sophie hugs him for several seconds, and he just chuckles softly as he pats her back. Kai is next, and as they hug, I can’t help but feel like I’ve never been happier. Seeing my son take after me, finding an interest in art and wanting to study art history at uni is somehow healing. Seeing him thrivehere,in the place that Sophie and I left twenty years ago, is also wholly ironic yet vindicating. We walked so he could run.
At the end of the day, all you want for your children is for them to be happy. And as Rowan turns and walks toward the door of his dorm, he’s grinning and radiating joy. He’shappyhere, that much is evident.
“So, shall we all go get absolutely smashed to drown out our feelings?” I ask.
Sophie laughs as she wraps an arm around my waist. Kai comes to my other side, and we walk off campus arm in arm.
“I think I’m too old to get ‘smashed’” Kai replies, turning his head and looking at me. “You remember what happened on my fiftieth.”
Sophie snorts. “Let’s not repeat that. I can’t handle a hangover that bad again.”
“One drink?” I ask, walking into the early night air of London in late September. Sometimes I miss it. On nights like tonight, when the air has the promising chill of autumn, and you can see your breath in front of you, I feel like I might’ve found a way to be happy here.
But without Kai in the picture… I can’t imagine we’d be as happy as we are now.
He balances us in ways I never expected—steady where I’m impulsive, grounding where Sophie is wild. Sophie softens him, teases out the warmth beneath his restraint, while he gives her the kind of unwavering support she’s never had before. And me? He sees parts of me even I’ve never understood, holding them up to the light with quiet certainty, like he’s always known I was meant to be his.
“One drink,” Kai says, dropping his arm and taking my hand instead. He laces his warm, calloused fingers with mine. “Just one.”
Sophie squeezes my waist and glances up at Kai with a knowing smile. “You’re both terrible at stopping at ‘just one.’”
Kai hums softly, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand as we stroll down the cobblestone path leading off campus. The faint sound of laughter and music filters through the crisp night air, the kind of noise that feels alive, brimming with possibility.
“Maybe tonight’s not about stopping,” I reply, looking between them. “Maybe it’s about celebrating.”
