I set the grocery bags on the counter and sigh. My day was long. My head is full. My son is singing some made-up dinosaur song in the living room.
I am halfway through rinsing Jace's paint cups when someone knocks. It is a steady knock, not hurried, and my stomach drops because I already know who it is. Jace looks up from the floor where he is lining his toy cars.
"Mama, someone's here," he says.
"I know," I answer, drying my hands.
I open the door. Gabe stands on the other side with his hands in his jacket pockets. His hair is still damp from a shower. He looks tired but steady in that way only he knows how to carry.
"Hey," he says quietly. "I was passing by. Thought I'd check if you need anything fixed."
"I don't," I say, because pride is still a reflex.
"Let me look anyway."
I should close the door. I should tell him to go. Instead, I step back and let him in.
He walks to the pantry like he has lived here for years. He touches the door, tests the hinge, then crouches down and listens to the squeak. He asks for a screwdriver. I hand him the one from the drawer. He tightens the screws, presses the hinge again, and the squeak disappears.
"Done," he says.
"You didn't have to," I reply.
"I wanted to."
Before I can answer, Jace walks over with three toy cars in his hands. He stares up at Gabe like he is meeting a superhero.
"Do you like red cars?" Jace asks.
"I do," Gabe says, sitting on the floor without hesitation. "Which one's the fastest?"
"This one," Jace says, dropping the cars into his lap. "But he gets tired."
Gabe nods like this is the most important information he has heard all day. "Cars get tired sometimes."
Jace climbs into his lap and keeps talking. He tells him about school and a friend named Rohan who brought a turtle-themed lunchbox and how everyone wanted to see it. Gabe listens without checking his phone, without rushing him, without trying to correct him. He nods, asks questions, and smiles when Jace laughs.
I stand in the kitchen doorway drying my hands again even though they are already dry. Something tight works its way into my chest. Watching them is easy and impossible at the same time.
Jace eventually slides off Gabe's knee and runs to the living room. "I'm gonna draw a dragon," he announces.
"You do that," Gabe says.
He stands and wipes his palms on his jeans. There is a quiet moment where he waits to see if I will say something. I don't. I am still gathering my breath.
"I'll go," he says softly.
"Okay."
He holds my eyes for a second longer than he should, then nods and steps outside. I close the door behind him, lean my back against it, and exhale like I have been holding air for hours.
Later, after Jace is asleep and the house is still, I sit on my bed with my knees pulled up. The room is dim. The only sound is the ceiling fan. I keep thinking about how he sat on my floor like it was the easiest thing in the world. How he spoke to my son withcare. How he fixed a door that did not need fixing just to make himself useful.
He hurt me. He did. There is no rewriting that. But there is also the man he was tonight. Quiet. Gentle. Present.
I pick up my phone without thinking. His name is at the top of my messages. My thumb hovers over the screen. I stare at it for a long time. Finally, I type.
Me: Still thinking about the other night. You fixed some things I didn't think needed any fixing.
