I felt something warm in my chest. “You’re . . . incredibly kind about it.”
He shrugged. “She deserved to be herself. So did I. And now we’re . . . a weird little family. But it works.”
“It really does,” I murmured.
He looked grateful. Quietly, but deeply.
I took a sip of my wine, letting the flavors ease the lump in my throat before I said, “When . . . when did Leo get his diagnosis?”
“Oh,” Alex said, brightening a little. “Three years old.”
“Who’s your pediatrician?"
“Dr. Patel.”
“That’s who we see now.”
“She’s a godsend, we love her.”
I exhaled in relief. “Oh, thank god. Leaving behind Ava’s doctors was hard. But I liked Dr. Patel.”
“She’s amazing,” he said with absolute conviction.
He tilted his head. “What about Ava’s diagnosis?”
A familiar tug of memory pulled at me. “A little later. It . . . took some time. And a few rough years in school. Lots of misunderstandings. A few teachers who didn’t get her at all.”
His brows pulled together in empathy.
“But Ethan . . . ” My voice softened without me meaning to. “He always understood her. He just . . . got her. He saw her clearly. Even before we had names for things.”
We both grew quiet.
The sunset cast a soft orange glow over everything as it sank behind the lake.
Alex didn’t rush to fill the silence. He didn’t look away, either. He just . . . held the moment with me.
“I’m really glad you had that,” he said quietly.
I swallowed, breath catching. “Me too.”
We sat with it. Not the heaviness, but the truth of it, letting the evening settle around us like a blanket.
And when our eyes met again . . . the moment didn’t break.
It shifted.
Softened.
Opened.
Something was changing between us, something I hadn’t expected, something warm and terrifying and alive.
The quiet between us stretched, comfortable, but also dangerously close to breaking something open in me I wasn’t ready for. The air felt thick. His eyes were too gentle. The grief was too near.
I cleared my throat softly. “So,” I said, swirling my wine, “what’s your favorite concert you’ve ever been to?”
He blinked.
