“I have them for you too,” Ivan says against my temple. “More than I should. More than is safe.”
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
“We’ll figure it out,” I tell him.
He doesn’t answer—just kisses me again. Soft. Lingering.
We climb out eventually. Towel each other dry with the thin motel towels. He carries me to the bed—gentle, careful—and pulls back the covers.
We slide in together and Ivan spoons me from behind, one arm banded around my waist, the other under my head.
I feel his heartbeat against my spine.
Steady.
Strong.
And as sleep begins to pull me under, I let myself believe—just for tonight—that maybe we can outrun everything waiting for us outside that door.
The more time I spend with Ivan, the more I’m seeing from him. And after tonight, I’m even wondering whether what I’m truly seeing is my Forever Daddy…
The next morning Ivan wakes me early, before dawn has even begun to thin the darkness outside the thin motel curtains. His hand rests lightly on my shoulder, thumb brushing once across the curve of my collarbone in a gesture that has already become familiar, almost comforting.
I blink into the dim room, disoriented for half a second until the events of yesterday rush back: the waterpark slides, the bookstore, the long quiet drive to this roadside place that smells faintly of cigarette smoke and old carpet. My body feels heavy with the kind of deep, restorative sleep that only comes after emotional exhaustion has finally burned itself out.
“Time to move, darling boy,” Ivan murmurs, voice low and gravelly from sleep. “We’re walking to the diner down the road. Need to eat and talk before the day starts moving too fast.”
“Okay,” I answer, my brain still attempting to kick into gear.
“Come on, move,” Ivan says, a playfully commanding tone in his voice.
I nod without argument, pushing myself upright. The sheets are tangled around my legs; I untangle them and swing my feet to the floor.
Ivan is already dressed: dark jeans, black hoodie, boots laced tight—like he’s been awake for hours. He stands by the window,peering through a narrow gap in the curtains, checking the parking lot the way he always does.
I pull on yesterday’s clothes, still faintly damp from the bath and carrying the motel’s cheap soap scent. Claw goes into the backpack last, tucked carefully between the coloring book and the half-finished mandala page I worked on until my eyes wouldn’t stay open. I zip the bag and sling it over one shoulder.
Ivan doesn’t ask if I’m ready. He simply holds out his hand.
I take my Daddy’s hand without a second thought. It feels so natural. So right.
We leave the room without turning on the overhead light. The door closes behind us with a soft final click that feels louder than it should in the pre-dawn stillness.
Outside, the air is sharp and cold enough that my breath fogs in front of my face. Ivan keeps my hand in his as we walk across the cracked asphalt toward the main road. No car this time. Just our feet on pavement, the occasional passing semi rumbling in the distance, the quiet crunch of grit under our soles.
The diner is a five-minute walk—same one we passed on the way in last night. A bell jingles when we push through the door.
Only three other customers are there at this ungodly hour: a trucker at the counter nursing black coffee, a young couple in a corner booth sharing an iPad, and a waiter wiping down tables with a rag that has seen better decades.
We slide into a booth near the back. Vinyl seats crackle under us. The menus are sticky but I don’t care.
Ivan orders for both of us without asking—pancakes, hash browns, eggs over easy, bacon, toast, coffee. I add extra toastwith marmalade when the waitress swings by again. He nods, no questions, and disappears toward the kitchen.
When he’s gone, I look across the table at Ivan.
He’s watching me, not the menu, not the door. Just me.
I feel the weight of everything unsaid settle between us like a third person in the booth.
