He smiles and pulls out several clear bags of labeled Lego pieces. His small hands sort pieces with surprising efficiency.
"This is gonna be the main tower," Beckett explains, stacking blue blocks.
"Oh, okay. I can see it now."
"And here's where the knights sleep. And this part—" he waves toward an imaginary section "—is where the king lives."
I follow his instructions, adding blocks where directed,watching his face light up with each new section completed. His imagination flows endlessly, a stream of stories about dragons and knights and secret passages.
"Can you help me with this tower part? It keeps falling."
I steady my voice, willing my hands not to shake. "Yeah, buddy. Let's get you set up."
We continue building, but everything has shifted. I'm hyperaware of his small shoulder pressed against mine, the identical way we both squint when concentrating on a difficult connection.
After we finish the impressive castle, I supervise teeth-brushing with exaggerated seriousness.
"Good form," I joke, channeling a sports announcer. "Excellent technique on those molars."
Beckett giggles around his toothbrush, foam dripping down his chin.
Later, tucked in bed with dinosaur books scattered around us, Beckett curls against my side, small and warm.
"Night, Warren," he murmurs, already half-asleep.
I stay frozen, my hand resting on his hair, unable to move. My chest burns with joy and grief all at once. I never realized how much I would treasure spending this time with him.
I sit there longer than necessary, memorizing the rise and fall of his chest, the fan of his eyelashes against his cheeks, the perfect weight of him against me.
When I finally step into the quiet living room, the house hums around me—the lingering smell of cookies, Janie's cardigan draped over the arm of the couch, the weight of family thick in the air.
The kitchen faucet drips. One, two, three. The predictable rhythm keeps me from pacing as I wait, checking my watch again. 8:47 PM.
Keys jingle softly outside. The front door eases open, and Janie, silhouetted against the porch light, heels dangling from her fingers, looks up, and our eyes meet. She freezes when she sees me.
“Warren?” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Sorry. You startled me. I didn’t expect you to be right there.”
“Oh, I thought I heard something. Turns out I did.” Jesus, I'm a bumbling idiot.
She steps inside, closing the door softly behind her. “How was this afternoon?”
“Perfect.” My throat tightens. “He’s a really fun kid to be around.”
Her eyes widen, lips parting slightly. “Yeah, he is. Thanks for stepping in for me. I know he loved it.”
Silence stretches, the kitchen island a barrier and a tether at once. Her purse lands on the counter with a soft thud before she moves to the sink, her steps quiet, unguarded. The black dress clings to her like it was made for her, and my mouth goes dry.
Want flares sharply, colliding with every instinct contrary to it.
"Did he go down okay?" She fills a glass with water, taking a long sip.
I nod, moving closer without thinking. "He did. We kicked the ball for a while, ate, he had a bath, and then we did Legos. Oh, and three bedtime stories."
Her fingers brush my arm as she reaches past me for the dish towel. Electricity zips through me.
"Y'all were busy. Come sit," she says as she walks into the den. "Tell me about it."
We drift to the couch, the space between us precise and deliberate. She curls her bare feet underneath her, looking softer than she has in months.