There is another man in Alec’s kitchen.
“Liar,” Alec fires back.“You came here to drag me to the gym and decided to cook instead.I’m telling Roderick you’re still taking lessons.”
Alec looks over at me again, and there it is—a small smile that feels far too knowing, too gentle, too aware of every fragile thing that unraveled between us last night.It hits low and slow, a tug I’m not prepared for, leaving me slightly off-balance, as he brushes against a feeling I didn’t give permission to surface.Heat rises in my cheeks, and I have to look away before it shows.
“Did you sleep well?”he asks.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.I need movement—distance, air, anything—so I step farther into the kitchen, aiming for the island.
That’s when I see him.
The owner of that second voice, sitting beside the spread of pans, mixing bowls, and what appears to be every pot Alec owns.Dark hair, an easy smile, and a face that looks very familiar.
“And you are ...?”I ask, my voice wobbling between polite and overwhelmed.
“Regretting coming in today,” he says dryly.
Alec gestures.“That’s Julian Wilder.He’s a better musician than he is a waffle-maker.”
“I’m pretty sure you never owned a waffle maker,” Julian states, then stands and holds out his hand.“Julian.And I assume you’re Mara, the mom.”
My hand goes into his automatically.
“Nice to meet you,” I say—orattemptto speak.
It comes out as a high, humiliating squeak that could shatter glass.But no one should blame me.Julian Wilder is standing in Alec’s kitchen.
TheJulian Wilder.
My teenage backbone dissolves on the spot.Every heartbreak mixtape I ever made, every angsty line I scribbled in margins, rises from the dead like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment to embarrass me.
I am painfully aware of my T-shirt, my messy sleep hair, and the fact that flour is now migrating from the floor to my socks like it’s forming a new continent.Note to self: don’t forget shoes the next time.
Alec groans.“Please don’t encourage her,” he mutters, sounding way to put out for a man who supposedly doesn’t care.“I already deal with enough of this when people realize who I am.”
The tone is unmistakable—irritation with a hint of “why is she looking at him like that” buried underneath.
“You deal with nothing,” Julian fires back.“You hide in your penthouse like a feral recluse.”
“It’s called privacy,” Alec snaps.
“It’s called denial,” Julian corrects without missing a beat.
Mila raises her hand like she’s in class, completely unfazed that a world-famous musician is standing three feet from her.
“Can someone help me flip this?It looks like a turtle without a head.”
Alec moves toward her instantly, guiding her wrist with that quiet precision he uses when he’s trying not to take over but can’t help wanting to help.He slips the spatula beneath the lopsided pancake and plays along like Mila’s steering the whole operation.She leans forward, fully invested, and he murmurs encouragement like they’ve been doing this together for years—like this is their shared morning routine, not a moment he’s stepping into for the first time.
It’s sweet in a way I’m not even close to prepared for.
A ripple runs through my chest as I watch them—my tiny girl in her flour-streaked pajamas, and Alec lowering himself to her height, letting her feel brave and capable.The tenderness of it hits before I can brace for it, disarming me completely.
And then the truth cuts through all of it: Mila will never get to do this with her father.
Never stand at a stove while Sam guides her hand.
Never hear him laugh when her pancake falls apart.
