I fold my arms and watch him walk toward Jace's door with the same confidence he probably used to storm compounds. He knocks once, very soft. "Hey, buddy," he calls. "You awake?"
Silence.
"Gabe," I whisper. "He can't hear you. He sleeps like a brick."
He ignores me and cracks the door open.
Two seconds later, a tiny, annoyed voice mumbles, "No. Sleep."
Gabe opens the door a little more. "Breakfast is ready. Your mom saved the best part for you."
I roll my eyes, because no I didn't, but okay. Jace groans and drags his dinosaur over his own face. "Too tired."
Gabe leans on the doorframe. "I walked a long way for your breakfast. I picked the best stuff. I think you'll like it."
There's a pause. Then a small thump as Jace rolls over and sits up, crooked and confused. His hair sticks up in every direction. He squints at Gabe. "You brought food?"
Gabe nods like he just negotiated a hostage release. "I did."
"Okay," Jace says and gets off the bed like his bones are made of noodles.
I swear under my breath. "How did you do that?"
Gabe shrugs as Jace walks by him and heads for the kitchen. "He's a guy. We understand each other."
"Oh, my God."
Breakfast becomes a small circus. Jace sits at the table, still half-asleep, chewing on a muffin like he's trying to figure out its moral purpose. Gabe helps peel his banana and pretends to faint when Jace makes a face at the peel like it's poisonous. Jace giggles, which means Gabe has earned at least five points in the unofficial parenting scorecard.
I sip my latte and study them quietly. Gabe is careful with him. Patient. Real. This wasn't planned, and he doesn't act confused or overwhelmed. He looks like a man who walked into something he didn't expect and still wants to stay.
When breakfast wraps up, it's time for Jace to get ready for preschool. Gabe ties his shoes without being asked, even though he ties them so tightly that Jace complains his toes feel squished. Gabe apologizes and fixes them while Jace leans on his shoulder.
That image goes straight to the part of me I've been trying to protect for years.
At the door, Jace grabs his backpack. "Bye, Gabe," he says in a shy voice.
Gabe kneels down. "Have a good day, buddy."
Jace beams and runs out ahead of me.
I turn to Gabe, who stands with his hands in his pockets. He looks steady again, but I see what he tries to hide. He wants to walk with us. He wants to stay. That thought presses on my ribs. "I'll see you later," he says.
"Yeah," I answer. "Go get work done or whatever you're pretending to do while you spy on my neighbors."
His mouth lifts. "They're not very subtle."
"Tell me about it."
We share a look that is too warm for nine in the morning. I open the door wider. "Go."
He nods and steps off the porch. I watch him walk to his truck, and the ache in my chest is a mix of dread and something that feels close to hope.
At preschool drop-off, nothing dramatic happens. No comments. No stares. No Sarah hiding behind a basketball hoop with binoculars. Jace hugs me tightly and runs inside.
I breathe out and head home, hoping the day will stay simple.
It doesn't.
