“But the money in there is—”
“Shh,” Logan said again, kissing him a little firmer this time. “I’m proud to be a provider. I’m proud I get to take care of you. Stop spinning this into something it’s not. We’re married. Get that through your thick skull.”
Adrian smiled, finally letting the fight go. “Okay.”
“Good,” Logan said, reaching for his keys. “Now let’s go pick up Jay. My mom’s waiting on us for lunch.”
The studio was modest but deeply personal. He focused on veteran clients, offering trauma-informed fitness and Krav Maga training rooted in his own military background. Adrian had reached out to local shelters and youth organizations, offering low-cost and free sessions for LGBTQ youth, a space where kids could move, sweat, and feel safe in their own skin, no questions asked. He wanted them to know what it felt like to be welcomed without hesitation—to belong without needing to earn it.
And through it all, Jay grew.
At first, he called them by their names.
“Logan.”
“Adrian.”
And that was fine. That was expected. Trust doesn’t arrive with a title—it arrives slowly, after enough days pass without doors slamming or footsteps retreating. They hadn’t minded. They would’ve waited forever. But somewhere along the way, without anyone really noticing the moment it happened, something shifted.
Jay started calling them Dads.
Not in ceremony. Not in a big reveal. Just… quietly. Tentatively. Like he was trying on the word to see how it felt in his mouth. The first time it happened, Logan had been sitting on the couch, a book half-finished in his lap, while Jay—sleepy and warm from the day—was curled up between them, his head tucked beneath Logan’s arm, his fingers absently twisting the hem of his shirt while some kids’ movie played in the background.
“Daddy?” Jay had murmured, eyes shut, his voice gentle with sleep.
Adrian and Logan paused, unsure who Jay was addressing, but it didn’t matter.
They exchanged glances, silently savoring this moment.
“Yeah, buddy?” Adrian had whispered, being cautious not to disturb the spell surrounding them.
Jay had simply mumbled sleepily, “I’m thirsty.”
But that was the beginning.
After that, the word began to find its way into sentences. Slipped out naturally. Softly. With time, it stopped sounding like something borrowed and started sounding like the truth.
And then, one evening, ordinary and unremarkable, the three of them sitting around the dinner table, Logan had looked up at Jay mid-conversation, smiled gently, and said, “You know, Adrian also speaks Hebrew. In Hebrew, kids call their dads Abba. You can use it. That’s how Adrian calls his dad.”
Jay’s eyes had gone wide, round and bright like Logan had just given him a secret he hadn’t known he was allowed to keep.
“Abba?” he repeated, testing it.
Adrian had stilled completely, his fork suspended midair, his eyes locking onto Logan’s like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
“Yeah,” Logan said, grinning. “It means Dad in Hebrew.”
Jay beamed. Not just smiled—beamed.And the very next morning, when he came shuffling down the hallway in his dinosaur pajamas, hair flattened on one side, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he yawned and said it without hesitation:
“Abba.”
Adrian lost it, and Logan had barely managed to tug him into the kitchen before Adrian collapsed into him, burying his face in Logan’s chest, his hands gripping his shirt like he needed something to hold onto.
“He called me Abba,” Adrian choked out, breath hitching, tears spilling quietly down his cheeks.
“Yeah, baby,” Logan whispered, kissing his temple, holding him steady. “He did.”
From that day on, it became a rhythm, a truth as natural as sunlight.
