Instead, I turn toward the window, watching the blur of dark fields. My reflection in the glass is tired, hopeful, terrified.
Beckett isn't awake to fill the space like the trip here. But our night together turned down the tension some. The silence is easy, not awkward.
“He’s out cold.” My voice sounds loud after several minutes of "22," by Taylor Swift.
Warren glances in the rearview, his expression softening at the sight of our sleeping son. “Always envied people who could sleep in cars.”
“Do car rides not put you to sleep?”
“Never. My mind races too much.”
I wonder what his mind races with now. Is it how easy and natural our night was? Or is it still anger, still calculating how to be Beckett’s dad while keeping me at arm’s length?
The truck curves around a bend. Warren’s hand tightens on the wheel. “He had fun this afternoon. Thanks for being open to the fair. I looked forward to it every year as a kid. My parents were too highfalutin to bother, but our nanny would take Charlie and me. Those trips are some of my clearest memories.”
“That’s really sweet, Warren.” My throat thickens. “Thank you for thinking of it… for letting me tag along, too.”
He nods, eyes fixed on the road, headlights cutting through the dark. “It wasn’t just for him.”
The admission hangs between us, delicate and dangerous.
“Warren—”
“I’m still figuring this out.” He cuts me off, probably not ready to let me open that can of worms. His voice stays low, careful not to wake Beckett.
“Me, too.” I turn toward the window, the fields rushing past.
On the console, his thumb traces an invisible pattern. I yearn to touch him, to feel him trace patterns on my hand.
“I keep thinking about what you said,” Warren murmurs. “About calling me. About the blocked number.”
I close my eyes, the memory raw. “I tried several times.”
“I know. I believe you. I blocked you because I was scared I wouldn’t be strong enough not to go back there. And I worried what would happen if I had. Now I blame myself for missing out because I was a coward.”
The quiet confession steals my breath. He keeps his eyes on the road, but the silence between us vibrates with everything unsaid. I want to say more, to beg him for his forgiveness, to say anything to make it better. But I know restraint is best now.
We pull into my driveway, headlights washing over the house, reality creeping back.
Warren eases the truck door open without a sound. I hold my breath, watching as he unbuckles Beckett with practiced care. My son's head lolls against Warren's chest when he lifts him, those little arms instantly wrapping around Warren's neck even in sleep.
The porch light catches them both. Warren's broad shoulders support our boy's weight, Beckett's face peaceful against his father's neck. They look so right together. So natural.
Warren glances at me, an unspoken question in his eyes.
"Front door's unlocked," I whisper, fishing my house keys from my purse out of habit, even though I don't need them.
The wooden steps creak beneath Warren's careful steps as he follows me. I open the door, watching as he ducks slightly to avoid bumping Beckett's head on the frame. It's as if he's claiming him.
"His room?" Warren keeps his voice low.
I nod toward the hallway, my throat suddenly too tight for words. "First door on the right."
Warren moves through my home with Beckett cradled against him, navigating the darkness with instinctive care. I trail behind, switching on the dim hallway light, watching them disappear into Beckett's bedroom.
I hang back in the doorway as Warren lowers our son onto the soccer ball sheets. Beckett stirs, his eyes fluttering.
"Shh," Warren soothes, his hand resting briefly on Beckett's forehead. "Sleep tight, buddy."