Page 65 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

Then another thought surfaces, colder and more practical.

Athena didn’t vanish for nothing.

She ran for safety.

If she has been raising a child alone, she has been carrying risk alone too.

I check the clock.

I wait.

Not from patience, not from respect alone, but from the need to avoid hurting that child. I picture bedtime routines, tiny teeth brushing, stories read on a couch, the final muttered “love you” that makes a mother’s face soften in the dark. I picture Athena doing all of it, then I picture myself absent from every part.

Time passes.

The city outside my window keeps moving. Cars slide along the street. Lights in neighboring buildings turn off one by one. The world settles into night while my mind refuses to.

I shower, dress in fresh clothes, then stop in front of the mirror and stare at my own eyes. Storm-gray. Familiar. Unforgiving. I watch myself for a long beat and realize I’m afraid of what I’ll do once I hear Athena’s voice again.

I leave the hotel and walk back toward her building with controlled pace.

The streets are quieter now. Porch lights glow. Windows show television flicker. I keep my hands in my pockets and my posture calm, and I track the blocks until I’m standing on the sidewalk across from her entrance again.

The building looks the same as it did earlier.

Still.

Ordinary.

No sign of danger.

No sign of welcome either.

I cross the street and stop at the front door.

I lift my hand.

Then I lower it again.

My head runs through the possible outcomes quickly. Athena could slam the door. Athena could call the police. Athena could tell me to go to hell and mean it. Athena could look at me and see a threat to the life she built, and I would deserve that reaction.

I lift my hand again and knock. I wait with my hands at my sides and my shoulders squared, then I hear movement behind the door. A lock turns. The door opens.

Athena stands there. For one suspended second, neither of us moves.

Her eyes meet mine, and the heat of recognition flickers across her face before she clamps it down. She looks older than I remember, not worn, just sharpened by time and responsibility. Her hair is down now, and her posture shifts slightly as she takes in my presence like she’s measuring risk.

Then her gaze shifts past me toward the hallway behind her shoulder, and I follow it.

The small girl stands there rubbing sleep from her eyes, curls messy, face half-hidden behind a yawn. She blinks slowly then looks directly at me with those eyes, and my heart sings and breaks at the same time.

The recognition is instant. My entire body goes rigid.

Fury flashes through me so fast it steals the ability to pretend I’m calm, and the sound of my own voice surprises me with how low it comes out. “Athena,” I say, and her name tastes like six years of restraint breaking.

My gaze snaps back to hers, and I don’t soften what comes next. “We need to talk,” I tell her. “Now.”

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