But now…
Now I’ve got Maria. The boys. A house that feels lived-in and loud and full in all the ways that count. I’ll be in the kitchen tonight, juggling pans while the boys argue over something ridiculous, making an extra plate to set aside for Maria for when she gets back from class. And somehow, without meaning to, everything shifted. I tighten my grip on the wheel, eyes flicking to Nicklas one more time.
He’s staring out the window again.
Quiet.
“You just hanging tonight?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the road, like the answer doesn’t matter as much as it does.
He shrugs, easy, familiar, and then wags his eyebrows. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be alone.”
I roll my eyes, a quiet breath slipping out of me. Same old Nicklas. Same deflection. Same charm.
“I was just thinking…” I hesitate for half a second, then push through it. “It’s a guys’ night at my place. I’ll be cooking with Lucas and Josh. Why don’t you come for dinner? We can all fumble around the kitchen together.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch it—his reaction. It’s quick, almost gone before it fully forms, but it’s there. His eyes light up, something real and unguarded slipping through the cracks before he schools it back into something casual.
“Who says I don’t know how to cook?”
I huff. “I just assumed, since you eat at The Nook every day.”
“Maybe I hang out there because I’ve got it bad for Maria.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, not taking the bait. “She seems fond of you too. In a brotherly sort of way.”
He laughs, turning toward me. “Jeez, for a minute there I thought you were jealous.”
“I’m not worried about you, Nicklas.”
The shift is immediate. The air changes. He goes completely still beside me, the teasing gone so fast it’s like it was never there. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Steadier.
“Then what are you worried about, Tuck?”
For a second, I swear he can see straight through me—past the bullshit, past the jokes, straight into the part of me I keep locked down tight. The part that knows exactly what this is. Exactly what I stand to lose.
Shit.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel, fingers flexing against the leather. I could dodge it. Laugh it off. Change the subject.
But I don’t.
“Truthfully, Nicklas…” My voice comes out rough, tight. “I had a past. One that didn’t turn out the way I thought it would.”
I glance at him, and what I find there steals the rest of the air from my lungs. No smirk. No teasing. Just concern. Solid and steady.
Real.
“I…I had a son.” The word catches, splinters. “Sort of.”
Ben.
Not mine by blood. But mine in every way that mattered. Mine in the quiet moments, in the scraped knees, bedtime stories and the way he used to reach for my hand like it belonged there.
Until it didn’t.
Until he was gone.
Taken from me.
