Jace climbs onto the bed and pats the mattress. "You can sit here."
Gabe sits on the edge of the bed like it's made of glass. His big hand picks up one of the smaller cars and rolls it back and forth on his knee while Jace explains the rules of some very complicated game that only he understands.
I watch them. My son on his dinosaur sheets. Gabe's broad back taking up too much space. The world is suddenly two inches to the left and my lungs aren't sure how to work.
The afternoon unfolds in strange, careful steps. We play cars together on the floor for a while. Gabe stretches out long and easy, listening and responding, never once looking at his phone. Jace climbs half on top of him at one point to make "a car ramp" out of his thigh, and Gabe just laughs and goes along. Later, after snack time, the doorbell rings. It's my neighbor, Sarah, with her son Noah nestled against her side.
"Noah's sleepover bag," she says, lifting the tote. "You sure you're good for tonight?"
"Of course," I say. "These two wear each other out. It's a service."
Noah spots Jace behind me and barrels in. They do a chaos greeting, all elbows and shouts and toy car trades. Sarah's gaze flicks past them and lands on Gabe, who just stepped into the hall.
"Hi," she says slowly.
"This is Gabe," I say. My throat tightens around the word. "An old friend."
Her eyebrows move in a way that promises questions later, but she just smiles and says, "Nice to meet you."
Gabe gives a short nod. "You too."
Once the boys are deep in negotiations about which movie to watch, Sarah leans close to me by the door. "We still good for pick-up at ten tomorrow?" she asks.
"Yeah," I say. "Text me when you're on your way."
She squeezes my arm. "And text me later if you need an excuse to walk someone out."
I manage a weak laugh. "You're terrible."
"I'm useful," she whispers, then leaves me there with a house full of boy noise and one very large man in my living room.
Evening comes in small pieces. We order pizza because I don't have the energy to cook for the extra stomach. The boys are in heaven. Tomato sauce on their cheeks, cheese on their fingers. They eat on a picnic blanket on the floor so they can be "camping". Gabe sits on the couch, a slice in his hand, eyes on them like he's trying to memorize every smear and crumb.
"Can Gabe have a sleepover?" Noah asks at one point, completely serious.
I choke on my drink. "No," I say, maybe too fast. "Gabe has his own bed at his own house."
Jace's eyes flick between us. "But he can stay for the movie?" he asks.
My heart does a little drop. "He can stay until the movie is done," I say slowly. "Then adults need sleep too."
Everyone accepts this as a sacred rule of the universe.
The movie is some animated thing full of dragons and jokes. The kids laugh in the same spots every time because we've seen it twenty times. I sit in the armchair like a guard. Gabe takes the end of the couch. At one point, Jace abandons the blanket and climbs into the space between Gabe and the cushion, tucking himself into that big body like it's something he's done for years.
Gabe goes very still, then his arm comes around Jace's shoulders, careful and protective. Jace sighs and relaxes fully, eyes still glued to the screen.
I stare at the TV and try not to cry.
By the time the credits roll, both boys are heavy-eyed. We herd them through teeth-brushing and bathroom trips. They negotiate sleeping arrangements like diplomats. In the end they both squeeze into Jace's bed with the promise that "if we fall out, we will just get back in."
I kiss Jace's forehead. "Good night, baby."
"Night, Mama," he mumbles. "Night, Gabe."
"Night, kiddo," Gabe says from the doorway.
We close the door together. For a second we stand there, side by side in the hall, listening to the murmur of whispers and giggles on the other side. The domesticity presses on my chest like a weight.
