Neither of us mentions it.
Mason climbs back onto the chair, already narrating his next move, and Aiden turns back to the stove, focused, steady. The city hums below us, distant and indifferent. I’m jealous of the city—distant and indifferent would keep me from this awkwardness.
And for the first time since waking up, I realize something unsettling. This morning doesn’t feel like damage control. It feels like a version of normal we never meant to test.
It feels like something I want to get used to.
I sigh and roll my eyes internally. “I’ll make some coffee.”
“Sounds good,” Aiden says as he turns to help Mason mix again.
The pancakes come together slowly.
Aiden insists on measuring everything, even though Mason keeps trying to dump ingredients straight into the bowl with wild confidence. There’s a rhythm to it—Aiden cracking eggs one-handed, Mason stirring too hard, flour puffing into the air like smoke signals.
I lean against the island, arms folded, watching. I’m just making sure Mason doesn’t fall off the chair. That’s what being a parent is—ensuring your kid doesn’t find new and inventive ways to hurt themselves.
But that doesn’t explain why my attention keeps snagging on small things. The way Aiden lowers his voice when he corrects Mason. The way he waits for Mason to finish talking, even when it takes forever. The way his hand hovers at Mason’s back when he climbs down, close enough to catch him but never grabbing unless he has to.
I’ve seen men try with kids. Performative patience. Forced cheer.
Aiden isn’t trying to be good with Mason. He just is, and that scares me.
Mason hums to himself while the pancakes cook, a tuneless little song. Aiden flips one cleanly, the pancake landing perfectly back in the pan.
Mason gasps. “Whoa.”
“Years of practice,” Aiden says dryly.
“With pancakes?” Mason asks.
“With messing things up first, then fixing them,” Aiden replies.
That gets a laugh out of me before I can stop it. Both of them look at me.
Aiden’s eyes hold mine for a beat too long. There’s something there—recognition, maybe. Or relief.
I look away first. Can’t let him see the heat in my cheeks.
Aiden slides a plate toward Mason. “First one’s yours. Hero tax.”
He pumps a fist. “Yes!” He grabs the pancake with his hands before I can stop him. “Hot!” he yelps, dropping it back onto the plate and shaking his fingers.
Aiden crouches instantly, concern flickering across his face. “You okay?”
Mason nods, still shaking his hand. “Yeah. I can handle it.”
“I know,” Aiden says, serious. “You can handle anything. But smart people still use forks.” He passes him a fork.
Mason considers this, then reaches for the silverware. “Okay.”
This isn’t supposed to feel intimate. It’s pancakes. It’s a man helping a kid he barely knows. And yet my chest feels tight, like I’m watching something private.
Mason takes a bite, syrup already on his cheek. “These are better than yours, Mom.”
“Hey,” I protest.
“They’re hero pancakes,” he says apologetically, like that explains everything.
