I nod. “Hey, I love the Crock Pot. I don’t know why you don’t.”
Owen squints at me. “Because it doesn’t taste like The Black Dog?”
“It’s even better,” I say proudly.
He sighs. “If you say so.”
Poppy looks between us. “Why do you hate it?”
“Because Crock Pot food is for old people,” Owen says.
I snort before I can stop myself. “No, it’s not.”
Ellie sighs contently in her sleep next to me on the couch.
Poppy presses her lips together. “Okay, first of all, rude. We are not old.”
Owen points. “See? Ellie even agrees.”
I laugh because this is what life is about—just being together, laughing, and doing life.
Poppy’s hovering, straightening the throw blanket that doesn’t need straightening. She touches my shoulder, my arm, my knee, like she’s checking me to make sure I’m okay.
“You good?” she asks for the third time.
“I’m good,” I insist, chuckling.
She doesn’t look like she believes me, but she smiles anyway. I know I scared the hell out of her, and I hate that I did but that’s the job and she knows it. I’ve had close calls before and I’ll have close calls again.
Owen’s pencil keeps rolling onto the floor. Poppy’s kneeling beside him, humming under her breath without realizing it.
She only hums when she’s worried.
The Crock Pot bubbles from the kitchen with the roast and potatoes that Owen pretends he hates but will have three helpings. The smell makes me feel like everything’s going to be okay.
Owen climbs onto the couch beside me, careful not to jostle the baby. He leans into my side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He watches Ellie for a moment, then looks up at me.
“Ollie?”
“Yeah, bud?”
He hesitates, chewing on his lip, and something in me goes still. I know this moment. I know not to rush it.
“Do you think,” he blurts, “you’d ever want to be like a dad to me, too?”
Everything freezes in the room—the sound of the Crock Pot bubbling, the hum of the heater in the apartment.
I look at him and over at Poppy. My chest squeezes with a hug. Emotion grips me and fills me as I’ve never felt before. Because this is a hell yes question, and hell, yes, I’d love to be like a dad to Owen. I already feel like I am. I hope that he feels it, too.
Poppy’s frozen, emotions tangled in her eyes.
I choose my words carefully because this vulnerability didn’t come easily to Owen. It couldn’t have. I remember feeling a similar way when I was his age. Not having parents who cared and wondering who would show up for me and be there. I’ll make it my mission in life to make sure he never feels that way ever again.
“If you want me,” I say slowly, “I’d be honored to be a dad to you, Owen.”
Owen doesn’t hesitate. He launches himself into me, wrapping his arms around my middle.
I pull him in, tucking him close, my arm around him, Ellie still asleep next to me, my whole world right here.
