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“Because I am apparently the only person in this house concerned about scurvy.”

“I don’t think scurvy is a significant risk,” I say.

She looks at me. “Whose side are you on?”

“His,” I say with a grin.

Shiloh beams.

Noelle points at me. “See? This is why you can’t just swoop back in here after a month.”

I raise an eyebrow. “My house.”

“My nutritional regimen,” she counters.

“My son.”

“Our son,” she corrects. Then freezes. Her lips part.

The candle between us flickers. Outside, the snow keeps falling. Across the table, Shiloh continues eating.

Noelle’s face turns pink. “I didn’t mean⁠—”

“I know.”

“I meant⁠—”

“I know what you meant.”

“Okay.”

She looks down at her plate.

I don’t.

Our son.

The words shouldn’t do anything to me.

But this is why she’s here.

This is literally what I asked for. I wanted a woman who would treat Shiloh as her own. Love him as if he came from her own flesh and blood.

But there is a significant difference between putting that requirement in a profile and hearing her say it out loud.

The last woman who sat at this table with us called him your son. Not at first. But toward the end. Your son is crying. Your son needs a bath. Your son, like he was something I’d brought home without asking her. I didn’t notice when it started. I only noticed, later, that I couldn’t remember the last time she’d said ours.

Noelle said it without thinking. That’s what gets me. It just came out. Naturally, instinctively. She’s claiming my boy and the emotions welling inside me feel too big, like suddenly my skin is too tight.

I look at my son. Then at her.

She’s pushing a piece of pasta around her plate with her fork, cheeks still flushed, bracing herself. “Hey.”

Her gaze lifts.

“It’s fine. Good, even.”

“Yeah?”