We eat in awkward silence, broken only by Max's occasional babble about the eggs being "yummy" and questions about where the "bike man" keeps his motorcycle.
"It's at the clubhouse," Dean tells him. "Maybe I'll show it to you sometime."
Max nods enthusiastically, then winces, his hand going to his jaw again.
"Owie," he whimpers.
"I know, sweetheart." I smooth his hair back. "We're going to get medicine soon."
"I'll go right after breakfast," Dean says. "What kind does he need?"
"Children's ibuprofen or acetaminophen. The liquid kind."
He nods, making a mental note. "I have to go to the clubhouse this afternoon. Meeting at three."
"That's fine. We won't be in your way." The last thing I want is to interfere with his life more than I already have.
"Not what I meant." He frowns. "Just letting you know my schedule. Thought maybe we could take him to the dentist this morning, before my meeting."
"Oh."
The "we" catches me off guard. I expected Dean to help financially, sure, but not to actively participate in Max's care so quickly.
"Yes, that would be good."
Dean finishes his coffee and stands. "I'll make the call, then run to the drugstore. Anything else you need while I'm out?"
The list of things we need is endless: diapers, wipes, clothes that fit, proper food, a real bed for Max, a job for me, a permanent home. But I just shake my head. "The medicine is enough. Thank you."
He grabs his keys and wallet, hesitating at the door. "Make yourselves at home. There's not much in the fridge but help yourselves to whatever."
After he leaves, I clean up breakfast while Max plays with a toy truck on the kitchen floor. The scene’s domesticity feels strange: me in Dean's kitchen, our son playing at my feet. Like we're a family, which we absolutely are not.
I think about last night, when Max woke crying from tooth pain. I heard Dean's footsteps on the stairs, pausing outside the bedroom door. For a moment, I thought he might come in, might offer to help. But after a brief hesitation, the footsteps retreated. I wasn't surprised. This is all new to him—overwhelming, probably. One day he's a single biker with no responsibilities beyond his club, the next he's faced with a child he never knew existed.
It's a lot for anyone to process.
I finish the dishes and join Max on the floor, helping him line up his few toys. The truck, a stuffed elephant, two action figures with missing limbs, and a soft ball. The sum total of his possessions.
"Where Daddy?" Max asks suddenly, looking toward the door.
The question startles me. Max has never called Dean "Daddy" until now.
"He went to get medicine for your tooth," I explain. "He'll be back soon."
Max nods, accepting this with a child's simple faith that adults will do what they say they'll do. I envy that faith. Life has taught me that people rarely keep their promises, that help comes with conditions, that nothing is permanent, especially not happiness.
Dean returns faster than I expected, a plastic bag in hand. He kneels beside Max, his large frame awkward as he tries to make himself smaller, less intimidating.
"Hey, buddy. Got something for your owie." He pulls out a bottle of children's ibuprofen and a brightly colored sippy cup. "And this, thought you might need a new cup."
The sippy cup is decorated with motorcycles, of course. Max's eyes light up.
"Bikes!" he exclaims, reaching for it.
I take the medicine, reading the dosage instructions. "This is perfect. Thank you."
Dean watches as I measure out the medicine and mix it with a little apple juice he also bought. Max takes it without complaint, too thrilled with his new cup to fuss about the taste.
