Still Yours, Somewhere
dad!Jay x f!reader; co-parents/exes to lovers
The knock comes exactly two minutes later than you expected. You know because youâve been checking the clock like youâre waiting for a delivery, not for the man who broke your heart quietly. It wasnât the kind of heartbreak that came with slamming doors or screaming matches. No. Jay left like smokeâsoft and invisible. One day he was there, cooking ramen at midnight, whispering in your ear when the baby was finally asleep. And the next, he wasnât.
You pull the door open before he knocks again. Jayâs standing there in a black hoodie, duffel bag over his shoulder, baseball cap pulled low. Itâs casual, like he could be any neighbor in the building. But your heart doesnât buy it. Not when it recognizes him before your eyes even finish the scan. He looks tired. And sorry. And thinner than the last time.
Before you can say anything, thereâs a squeal behind you. âAppa!!â
Tiny feet thud across the floor as your daughter charges past you, curls bouncing, her socked feet sliding slightly on the hardwood. Jay drops the bag and crouches instinctively, catching her with open arms like his body knew before his mind caught up.
âHey, baby,â he breathes. Itâs the softest thing youâve heard in weeks. She clings to him like heâs never been gone. Like he didnât miss her third birthday party or the week she had the flu and refused to sleep anywhere but curled on your chest. You swallow that memory back.
âCome in,â you say, stepping aside. Jay doesnât look at you as he walks past. You donât blame him. Heâs not the one holding grudgesâbut he knows you might be. And heâs not wrong.
She leads him to the corner of the living room where her pink plastic kitchen set waits like a shrine. You head into the actual kitchen, the one with sharp knives and dishes that need to be washed. He doesnât follow right away. Heâs too busy being Appa.
You listen to the distant sounds of make-believe: her bossy little voice instructing him on how to pour invisible tea. His quiet chuckles. A clink as he knocks over a toy cup. Your chest feels too tight.
By the time he steps into the kitchen, youâve already cut fruit, poured juice, and stacked mail that doesnât belong to him anymore.
âThanks for letting me come,â he says. Voice low. No stage voice, no idol voice. Just Jay.
You set the knife down carefully. âYouâre her father,â you say. âShe wants you here.â
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. âAnd you?â
You look up slowly. âI want what she wants.â
Itâs not cruel. Itâs honest. Jay flinches like he expected it but hoped otherwise.
âYouâre doing amazing with her,â he says after a beat, nodding toward the playroom. âSheâs happy. Sheâs⌠her own person. Thatâs all you.â
Your throat tightens, but you donât let it show. âI know.â
He laughs, bitter and self-aware. âYou always did.â
Thereâs another beat of silence, the kind that feels louder than noise. Then you say, âI didnât let you back into our lives for me, Jay.â
His eyes finally meet yours.
You continue, âI let you back in because she loves you. Because she deserves the chance to have thatâto feel like her dad didnât disappear.â
Jay doesnât speak. But the emotion in his eyes says it all. You couldâve closed the door. You didnât. You couldâve erased him from the bedtime stories and the framed photos. You didnât. Not because you couldnât. Because you knew what it would take from her. And Jay realizes it nowâthat this is grace. That this isnât forgiveness yet, not even close. But itâs something. A bridge. Maybe the first step toward becoming someone worth being chosen again.
He clears his throat. âI brought her that book she liked. The one with the frogs and the paper umbrellas.â
âShe still reads it,â you say. âSometimes, she sleeps with it in her bed.â
He looks like that hurts more than it should.
âShe talks about you all the time,â you add. âEven when you werenât around. She made up stories about where you wereâsaid you were helping stars fall into the sky.â
Jay chokes out a breath. Not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. âShe really said that?â
You nod. âShe missed you so hard she made magic out of it.â
He sinks into one of the stools at the counter, suddenly too exhausted to pretend anymore. âIâm sorry,â he says, voice breaking. âFor all of it. I wanted to be better than this.â
You lean on the opposite side of the counter. Not close. Not yet. âYou still can be.â
And thatâs where you leave it. Not a promise. Not a punishment. Just truth. A place to start.
You let Jay stay on the couch. Offered it without ceremony, just tossed him a folded blanket from the linen closet and pointed at the cushions. Neither of you pretended it was more than it was. A neutral zone. A seat on the sidelines.
Your daughter was thrilled, of course. âAppaâs having a sleepover!â she giggled, curling against him like the time apart hadnât even dented her instinct to cling. She made you pull out the spare toothbrush and left her bunny next to his pillow like a peace offering. You went to bed alone as usual that night. And every sound from the living room felt louder than usual.
In the morning, heâs already up. You pause in the doorway, surprised to find him half-dressedâsweatpants, a loose t-shirt you hadnât seen since before the splitâand standing in your kitchen like muscle memory brought him there.
He doesnât hear you right away. Heâs focused, pouring juice into a pink cup, crouching slightly to meet your daughterâs sleepy gaze where she sits at the table in her oversized Spider-Man pajamas.
âLike this?â he asks, holding up a slice of apple with cinnamon sprinkled on top.
She nods emphatically. âThatâs how Mommy does it,â she says.
Jay glances up then, sees you leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. You donât speak at first. Neither does he.
But your daughter breaks the silence. âAppa, can you pick me up from ballet today?â
You freeze.
Jay hesitates. âI⌠have a meeting. But maybe next time.â
âOh.â Her face dims just enough to punch air from your lungs.
You move to grab your coffee mug, shielding your emotions behind routine. âItâs okay,â you say evenly, directing your words to your daughter. âWeâll go together like usual.â
Jay watches you a second longer than necessary. Like he wants to say something but knows itâll come out wrong.
He doesnât leave right away. Instead, he lingers after breakfast, helping her zip her coat, tying her shoes without you needing to ask. Itâs jarring how naturally he steps back into it. Like the gap in time is something only you felt.
She hugs him goodbye, arms tight around his neck.
Youâre halfway out the door when he calls after you. âHey.â
You pause, turning slightly.
He looks unsure. But he says it anyway. âYou always made it look easy. Raising her.â
Your throat tightens. âIt wasnât.â
âI know that now.â
You nod, jaw tense. âGood.â
Jay steps closer, voice lower now. âYou know⌠you didnât have to let me back in.â
You meet his eyes. âI just let our daughter see her father again.â
Something shifts in his expression. Before he can say more, your daughter tugs your hand impatiently. The moment passes.
That night, he texts you: Thank you. Again.
You almost donât reply. But then you do: She deserves you. Just donât make me regret it.
A typing bubble appears. Disappears. Comes back: I wonât.
The next few weeks fall into a fragile rhythm. He picks her up once a week. You watch from the window sometimes as she runs to him, trusting. You donât invite him back inside again. But sometimes he lingers at the doorway longer than he needs to, eyes flickering over you like heâs memorizing the new edges.
He asks questions. âDoes she still hate broccoli?â âIs she still scared of the vacuum?â âWhat songs does she fall asleep to now?â
Itâs slow, careful. Like walking barefoot through a house you used to live in, afraid of stepping on the broken things you left behind.
One Friday night, she asks if he can stay for dinner. You hesitate. Jay stands in the doorway, silent, waiting for your answer.
Finally, you nod. âSure. If you can handle mac and cheese with a side of chaos.â
He grins, relief etched into every line of his face. âWouldnât miss it.â
That night, you all eat together. For the first time in over a year. Jay sits across from you, helping your daughter scoop peas into her mouth with exaggerated praise. The air feels weirdânostalgic, sharp-edged. Too much like before. You catch him watching you when he thinks youâre not looking. You ignore the way it makes your stomach twist.
Later, after sheâs tucked in and snoring lightly under her blanket, you find Jay standing in the kitchen. Heâs holding that same frog-and-umbrella book. âShe wanted me to read it,â he murmurs.
You nod, leaning against the counter. âShe used to fall asleep in your arms with that one,â you say. âWouldnât let me read it after you left.â
Jay swallows. âI didnât think sheâd even remember me.â
You glance at him. âShe remembers everything.â
He nods slowly. His voice lowers. âDo you?â
The question hangs in the air like a blade.
You meet his gaze, guarded. âI try not to.â
But itâs a lie. Because some nights, you still dream of soft laughter in shared bedsheets. Of lullabies sung together. Of Jay's warm hand on your back when the baby cried at 3 a.m. Of what it felt like to be a family.
He nods, like he knew the answer anyway.
For the first time in a year you leave your apartment without a diaper bag or a mental checklist. Jay insistedâoffered, actually. Said he wanted time alone with her. That he could handle bedtime. You didnât argue. Not because you needed the break (you always need the break), but because something in his eyes made you say yes before your pride could interrupt.
Now youâre standing outside a dimly lit lounge, wrapped in a long black coat, dress peeking beneath the hem, a little mascara smudged in the corner of your eye. You hadnât expected anyone you knew. But the universe has its timing.
âWhoa,â a familiar voice says over the music. âDidnât expect to see you here.â
You turn, startled. Jake. His hair is slicked back a little, glass of whiskey in hand. No cameras. No entourage. Just him.
You blink. âJake?â
He laughs. âHey. I thought I was hallucinating for a second.â
You smile, a little sheepish.
Jake tilts his head. âSo⌠youâre out, and Jayâs on dad duty?â
You nod. âHe offered. I figured, why not?â
Jake leans against the bar, eyes thoughtful. âThatâs good. Itâs really good.â
You raise an eyebrow. âYou think?â
He hesitates, then gestures to the empty seat next to him. âWanna sit for a minute?â
You do. Thereâs something soft about Jakeâalways has been. The easy charm, the warmth. Heâs the type who remembers birthdays and makes sure everyone eats on time during rehearsals. He sips his drink, eyes scanning you carefully. Not judgmental. Just aware.
âJay talks about her all the time,â he says suddenly.
You blink. âHe does?â
Jake nods. âEvery chance he got. Even when he didnât realize he was doing it.â
Your fingers tighten around your glass.
âHe always said he didnât deserve to be in her life,â Jake continues. âThat he missed too much. That he screwed it up.â
You stay quiet.
Jake glances at you. âWe didnât push him. But I think we all knew⌠he wanted to come back. Just didnât know if youâd ever let him.â
You look down, voice quiet. âI didnât do it for him.â
âI know,â Jake says gently. âBut Iâm glad you did it anyway.â
You feel your throat tighten. The music hums around you, too loud and too distant all at once.
Jake softens. âHeâs different now. Iâm not saying heâs fixed or perfect. But Iâve known Jay a long time. Iâve never seen him hurt over anything like this before.â
You swallow. âI didnât want to break him.â
âI donât think you did,â Jake says. âI think he broke himself. You just stopped trying to hold the pieces together.â
The silence between you stretches. A respectful pause.
Then Jake grins, lighter now. âAlso⌠for what itâs worth? She looks just like him. Itâs scary.â
You laughâactually laughâand it feels strange on your tongue. âShe acts like him too,â you murmur. âStubborn as hell. Walks into a room like she owns it.â
Jake smirks. âYup. Thatâs Jay.â
You check your phone after a while. No missed calls. No texts. Just a photo Jay sent an hour ago: your daughter curled into his chest, bunny squished between them, both asleep on the couch. You stare at it longer than you should.
When you get home, the apartment is quiet. You slip your shoes off, letting the familiar hush wrap around you. Then you see them. Jay, asleep on the couch, her small form tucked beneath his arm like she belongs nowhere else. The bunny is squished between them. His hand is still resting protectively on her back, even in sleep. He looks younger like this. Softer. Less burdened.
Your heart aches. Not with anger. Not even with regret. But with something more dangerousâhope. You should wake him. Tell him to get up, go home, not make this more complicated than it already is. But you donât.
Instead, you pull the blanket off the recliner and drape it over both of them. Gently. Carefully. Your fingers hover over his cheek for a second too long. Then you turn away. Because youâre not ready. But maybe youâre not as far from it as you thought.
You donât realize heâs been staying longer until you start hearing his laugh in the quiet parts of your day. Not echoes. Not memory. But real.
He drops her off on Wednesdays now. Brings her back from school on Fridays. Shows up with bubble tea and new coloring books like itâs nothing. Like he didnât spend a year behind a wall you couldnât knock down. And somehow, you let it happen. Because sheâs thriving. And you are⌠softening. Against your will, against your better judgment.
You still sleep in separate rooms. You still keep a safe distance. But heâs in the kitchen more. Sitting across from you at the table. Making coffee the way you like it even when heâs not staying over.
One night, sheâs already asleep when the sky cracks open. Rain slams against the windows. The kind of storm that steals power without warning. The lights go out while youâre rinsing dishes. You mutter a curse under your breath. Somewhere in the hallway, your daughter stirs but doesnât wake. Youâre about to reach for your phone when Jay appears beside you, flashlight in hand.
âI found it in the junk drawer,â he says. âPretty sure itâs been there since we moved in.â
You exhale a laugh. âFigures youâd be the one to remember that.â
You light a candle from the counter. It flickers softly, casting his face in gold. The silence settles warm and close.
âFeels like that night we stayed in the countryside,â he says after a beat. âThe power went out and we just sat in the dark, eating instant noodles and playing 20 Questions.â
Your chest aches. You remember it too. You look at him over the candlelight. âYou played dirty. You asked me what my favorite Jay was.â
He smirks, eyes gleaming. âAnd I believe you said bedhead Jay who makes pancakes shirtless.â
You try not to smile. You fail. Thereâs a beat. He shifts closer.
âI miss this,â he says quietly.
You freeze. âThe candlelight?â
âNo,â he murmurs. âYou. This. Us. I miss us.â
You turn away, hands braced on the sink. âJayâŚâ
âI know. I donât get to ask for anything. I lost that right. But I see you now. Every day. And I donât know how I ever let this go.â
The air between you pulses. âDonât do this,â you whisper.
âWhy not?â
âBecause itâs not fair. You left. You let me carry all of it.â
âI know,â he says. âAnd I hate myself for it.â He steps behind youâŚclose, but not touching. âYou didnât need me. But you still let me be her dad. You chose what was best for her. Even if it hurt.â
You swallow hard. âI didnât do it for you.â
âI know.â His voice cracks then. âBut I want to do something for you now. I want to earn this. If I ever have a shot at it again.â
You turn to face him, candlelight flickering between you. Thereâs something raw in his eyes. Something you remember loving once. Something youâre terrified to reach for again.
âI donât trust you yet,â you say.
âI donât expect you to,â he answers. âBut Iâll show up. Every day. Until maybe you can.â
Thereâs a silence, heavy with history and hope. You nod, just once. âOkay.â
That night, he sleeps on the couch again. You linger a little longer after tucking your daughter in her room. When you pass him curled under the blanket, eyes still open in the dark, you whisper: âGoodnight, Jay.â
And he whispers back: âStill yours, somewhere.â
You donât know when it starts happening. Maybe itâs the way he starts remembering which side of the coffee maker your favorite mug goes on. Or how he folds your daughterâs socks the exact way you like them â tiny, neat rolls instead of mismatched clumps. Maybe itâs when he buys your brand of coffee creamer without asking. Just slips it into the fridge like he belongs there.
The truth is⌠itâs all of it. Jay is showing up. Consistently. Quietly. Without the grand gestures or dramatic apologies. And itâs fucking terrifying. Because for the first time since everything fell apart, youâre starting to want him again. Not the idea of him. Not the memory of who he used to be. This version of Jay is soft, present, and utterly unrushed in how heâs returning to you.
Itâs a Tuesday when it happens. He comes by after work with groceries and insists on cooking because you âlook tired,â and heâs still annoyingly good at reading your face. Your daughter squeals when she sees the box of star-shaped pasta and grape juice.
âYouâre spoiling her,â you tease, watching him in the kitchen.
Jay shrugs. âShe deserves it.â
You donât argue.
Later, while she watches a cartoon in the next room, you sit on the couch folding laundry. Your laundry. You donât even realize youâve accepted his help until you see him across from you, quietly folding one of your t-shirts.
He hums softly under his breath a familiar tune. One you used to hear in the mornings, back when his voice was the first thing you woke to. Your fingers freeze mid-fold. He doesnât notice at first. Just keeps moving, steady and gentle. Until he glances up and sees your face. Youâre staring at the shirt in your hands. Your lips pressed tight.
Jay sets down the pair of socks heâs holding. âWhat?â he asks softly.
Your voice is smaller than you mean it to be. âYou used to do that. After we put her to sleep. Youâd hum while folding laundry. Like it made the silence less lonely.â
Jay swallows. âI remember.â
You meet his gaze. Thereâs something breaking in your chest, and you canât name it. âI used to sit here⌠after you left. And fold the same shirts. Same socks. Alone. And it felt so loud.â
His eyes are wide now. Still and raw. âI didnât realize how loud I was until you were gone,â he says quietly. âHow much space I took up⌠without giving anything back.â
You exhale shakily. âYou were good at being a father. But you forgot how to be my partner.â
âI know,â he whispers. âAnd I think about it every night.â
You shake your head, blinking fast. âYouâre doing everything right now. I see it. Sheâs happier. She sleeps better. She laughs louder. And Iâmââ You pause. Heart thudding. âIâm starting to remember what it felt like to need you.â
Jay leans forward. His voice is reverent. âI donât want you to need me. I just want to be someone youâd choose again.â
You look at him, mouth parted slightly. Thereâs too much in that moment. So you do the only thing you can. You nod. Press your hand against your chest. Breathe through the ache. And whisper, âWeâll see.â
That night, after he leaves, you find one of his hoodies in the laundry basket. It smells like his cologne. You donât wash it. You just hold it. And for the first time in months, you let yourself cry â not out of anger or exhaustion, but because hope is starting to live here again. Quiet. Steady. Just like him.
You wake up to the sound of coughing. Then a whimper. You donât think. You just moveâhalf asleep, feet bare against the floor as you rush to her room. Sheâs warm. Too warm. Her forehead is burning under your palm, her cheeks flushed and eyes watery. You cradle her carefully, whispering soft reassurances as you grab the thermometer from the drawer. 102.7.
Shit.
You donât want to panic, but the fear hits low in your stomach. You try giving her water, then medicine. She cries. Too weak to protest, too tired to keep her eyes open. You need help. And you know exactly who to call.
Even though itâs almost 2:00 a.m., he picks up after one ring. âIâm on my way.â No hesitation. No questions.
Fifteen minutes later, Jay is at your front door, hair messy, sweatshirt inside out, worry carved into every inch of him. âShe okay?â he breathes, stepping inside like muscle memory.
âSheâs burning up,â you whisper. âShe wonât really eat or drink.â
Jayâs already movingâkneeling by her bed, brushing the damp hair off her forehead with trembling fingers. His eyes are glossy. Terrified.
âHey, baby girl,â he whispers. âAppaâs here, okay? Just rest.â
You sit beside him. Shoulder to shoulder. Silence pressing down hard and heavy. Every now and then she whines softly in her sleep, and Jay flinches like heâs been shot.
You rest your head back against the wall. âShe gets sick maybe twice a year. Always hits her like a truck.â
He nods, jaw clenched. âI hate that I wasnât here the last time. Or the time before that.â
You say nothing.
He turns toward you. Voice low. âThank you for calling me.â
Your eyes sting. âShe asked for you.â
His lips part, like that breaks him a little more.
You glance down at your hands. âYou came so fast. I didnât expectââ
Jay swallows. âIâve been waiting for you to need me.â
You donât look at him when you say it. âI didnât call because I needed you,â you whisper. âI called because I knew youâd come.â
Heâs quiet for a long time. Then, softly: âIs that not the same thing?â
You finally look at him. And there it is againâthat ache. That sharp, familiar pull toward him that never really left.
âSheâs going to be okay,â he says gently, watching you instead of her now.
You nod, eyes stinging. âYeah. But I donât know if I am.â
You feel his hand brush over yoursâlight, tentative, but there. When you donât pull away, he threads his fingers through yours. Itâs stupid, how something so simple can feel so huge.
âYouâve done everything right,â he murmurs. âI see that now. You were everything. I was the one who disappeared.â
You clench your jaw to keep the tears at bay. âI kept waiting for you to come back.â
âAnd I donât know if youâll ever forgive me for that.â
You look at him, heart raw and cracked open. âI want to,â you whisper. âGod, Jay. I really want to.â
His eyes flicker to your mouth. And for a moment, neither of you move. Until you both doâat the same time. The kiss is soft. Not desperate. Not messy. Just real. Like memory. Like grief. Like relief.
His hand comes up to cup your cheek, reverent and trembling. Your lips move together like they were always supposed to, like this was always the ending waiting to happen. It doesnât fix everything. But it changes it.
When you finally pull back, breath shallow and heart racing, he leans his forehead against yours.
âIâve loved you this whole time,â he whispers. âI just forgot how to show it. But I feel like I know how now.â
Your voice breaks. âDonât make me remember just to lose you again.â
âI wonât,â he promises. âI swear I wonât.â
And for the first time since everything fell apart, you almost believe him.
You wake up on the couch. Your daughter is asleep between you, curled against Jayâs chest like she always used to be. His arm is draped around her back, careful and protective. And his other hand⌠is holding yours.
You mustâve dozed off after she settled. You remember the medicine kicking in, her little body cooling under a fresh set of pajamas, and Jayâwatching both of you like you were made of porcelain.
Now the morning light is beginning to stretch through the blinds, and everything feels too quiet. Too still. You slip your hand away first. Jay stirs. His eyes blink open, still heavy with sleep, but he looks at you instantly. Like he was already halfway awake, waiting for you to move.
âHey,â he says, voice gravel-soft.
âMorning.â
You both whisper. Like anything louder would shatter whatever this is.
He glances down at your daughter, then back up at you. âShe feel cooler?â
You nod. âI think the fever broke sometime around 4. Her breathingâs calmer now.â
He smiles. Soft. Relieved. You smile back instinctively. And it hits you how dangerous that feels.Smiling like this. Soft like this. Easy like this. Like the kiss didnât happen. Like everything didnât just change.
Jay makes breakfast. Like he used to. Like it never stopped. Your daughter pads out in her socks and oversized T-shirt, still groggy, but hungry enough to ask for toast with strawberry jam and cut-up bananas on the side. Jay doesnât even ask how she wants it. He just knows. You watch him from the doorway.
And it hits you all at once: this is what he wouldâve looked like if he never left. Hair messy, standing at the stove in a hoodie, humming under his breath while flipping pancakes. Your chest aches. Itâs so normal. So close. It makes you want to run and hold on all at the same time.
He catches your gaze when he turns. And something in his expression changes. âI didnât dream it, did I?â he asks softly, like he already knows the answer.
You donât play dumb. You shake your head once. âNo.â
A beat. He nods slowly. Then says: âI donât want to pretend it didnât happen.â
You swallow. âNeither do I.â
Thereâs silence. The pan sizzles between you.
âBut?â he asks.
You meet his eyes, finally. âBut if we do this again, I need you to show up every day. Not just for her. For me.â
Jay walks toward you slow and careful. Like he knows you might bolt. He stops just close enough for you to feel his warmth. âThen let me show you.â
You blink up at him. âJayâŚâ
âI donât want the easy parts,â he says. âI want the hard ones. I want the mornings where youâre mad at me and donât want to talk. I want the late nights where we both forget the laundry and fall asleep on the couch. I want you. All of it. Again.â
You inhale shakily. âThen youâll have to earn it. Day by day.â
âI will.â
You nod, barely. âOkay.â
After breakfast, he kisses the top of your daughterâs head, tells her heâll be back tomorrow to take her to the aquarium like he promised. Then he turns to you. Doesnât try to kiss you again. Doesnât linger too long. Just touches your arm. Just once.
And says, âThank you. For yesterday. For last night.â
You nod. âThank you for showing up.â
And then heâs gone. The house is quiet again. But this time, it doesnât feel like somethingâs missing. It feels like someoneâs coming home.
Jay hasnât been sleeping much. Not in the way that matters. He closes his eyes. Sure. Lies still. Tries not to look at his phone when the hours slip past midnight. But rest? That settled, bone-deep kind of quiet? He hasnât had that in years. Not since the night he packed his duffel bag and closed the door behind him without looking back. Not since he heard his daughter cry from the other side of it and still didnât turn around. Not since he told himself heâd be a better father if he left. That maybe sheâd grow up stronger if she didnât see him fail her mother every day. That was the lie he told himself, anyway.
âJayâ a voice says, knocking him out of the spiral. Jay looks up to see Jake, standing in the doorway of the studio, holding two takeaway cups and a familiar look of concern. âThought you might want coffee. You look like you havenât blinked in an hour.â
Jay offers a tired smile. âThanks.â
Jake walks in, settles beside him, and hands him the cup. He doesnât say anything for a while, just watches Jay scroll absently through his notes app: blank entries, half-written reminders, an unsent message sitting at the top: âYou looked at me like Iâd never left, and I donât know if that makes it better or worse.â
Jake finally breaks the silence. âYouâve been different lately.â
Jay sighs. âIs that a nice way of saying I look like shit?â
Jake laughs, but it fades quickly. âNo. You look like someone whoâs trying not to hope too hard.â
Jay doesnât answer.
Jake softens. âShe let you in again, didnât she?â
Jay nods once.
âShe called me,â he says quietly. âWhen our daughter got sick. Middle of the night. No hesitation.â
Jake blinks. âThatâs⌠big.â
âI didnât even put my hoodie on properly,â Jay murmurs. âI just ran.â
Jake doesnât interrupt.
Jay looks down at the rim of his cup. âI kissed her.â
Thereâs silence. Then: âYeah,â Jake says gently. âI figured. Youâve had that look on your face lately.â
Jay lets out a shaky breath. âIt didnât feel like a regular kiss. It felt like falling off a roof. And realizing sheâs the ground.â
Jake leans back. âYou still love her.â
âI never stopped.â
âBut you left. Essentially prioritized the team over your family.â
âI thought it was the only decision. Less likely to hurt her with all my stress and pressure andââ he breaks off, voice tight. âI thought walking away would protect her. Protect them.â
âAnd?â
Jay swallows. âIt just proved I was the one who needed protecting. From myself. I didn't even discuss it with her, I just left.â He leans forward, elbows on his knees. âShe made a life without me. Raised our daughter like she was built for it. And now⌠Iâm watching her do it all, and I canât stop thinking about how I donât deserve a second chance.â
Jake is quiet for a while before saying, âJay⌠You never had to earn her.â
Jayâs head lifts.
âYou loved herâyou still do. You chose her. She had your daughter. She waited for you longer than most people ever would. You didnât lose her because you were bad. You lost her because you didnât trust yourself to be enough.â
Jay blinks hard.
Jake goes on. âBetween the two of us, you know her better. But I donât think you realize that she doesnât want the perfect version of you. She just wants the version that stays.â
That line hits something deep. Because for years, Jay thought he had to be exceptional to be loved. To deserve a family. A home. But maybe what she needed was never a savior. Just a man who didnât flinch when things got heavy.
Jay doesnât say much after that. Just thanks Jake for the coffee. And when he gets home that night, he pulls out the hoodie you gave back last winter â the one you returned, folded, silent, after the breakup â and he wears it again. Not because he wants you to see it. But because he wants to believe he still fits in it.
Your daughter is finally asleep. Her feverâs gone, but she clung to you all day. Fussy, needy, small in that way only sick kids can be. And Jay⌠he came by with soup. You told him it wasnât necessary. He showed up anyway.
âBone broth,â he said when you opened the door. âWith garlic, ginger, seaweed. My mom used to make it whenever I got sick.â
You took it from him wordlessly. Still warm in your hands. Homemade.
âThank you,â you said softly. âSheâs sleeping. But sheâll want it when she wakes up.â
He nodded, lips twitching into a quiet smile. âI figured. I didnât come to stay...â
And yetâ heâs still here. Youâre both on the couch. Some movie is playing in the background, but neither of you is really watching it. Heâs sitting on the opposite end, elbow propped, body angled toward you. Youâve curled into the corner with your knees up, hoodie sleeves pulled past your palms.
And for the first time in a long time, youâre not talking like exes. You're just talking. You donât even realize youâre laughing until he says something about your daughterâs tiny dramatic tantrums, and you choke on your tea.
âShe gets that from you,â you say.
Jay grins. âNo way. That is pure you energy. The hands? The fake crying? Iâve seen you throw a pillow at my head for less.â
You laugh again â this time, genuinely â and it makes your chest ache. He looks at you a second longer than he should. You feel it. That pause. That old gravity.
âI missed this,â he says suddenly.
You freeze. âThis?â you repeat. âSick-day soup and accidental couch therapy?â
Jay smiles, but it doesnât quite reach his eyes. âYou laughing. With me. Like it used to be.â
Your fingers tighten around your cup. âIt wasnât always like this,â you whisper.
He nods. âI know.â
âSome nights, you wouldnât even come home.â
âI hated myself more for that than youâll ever know.â
Silence. Then softly, you ask: âWhyâd you leave for real, Jay? Not the version you told everyone. Not the version you told me.â
He hesitates. And then, quietly: âBecause I thought you'd be better without me. And I hated that I mightâve been right.â
You close your eyes. When you open them again, he's staring at the floor, knuckles white against his knees. âI wasnât better,â you say. âI was just surviving.â
âIâm tired of watching you survive without me,â he murmurs.
You look at himâreally look. At the way heâs leaning forward now. Elbows to thighs. Eyes full of regret and something achingly familiar. Thereâs something about the way he looks tonight. Like heâs been trying to come home for years and didnât know where to knock. You shift a little on the couch.
The silence stretches.
He moves to stand. âI shouldââ
âYou can stay,â you say quickly, voice small. He freezes. âIf you want.â
His eyes lift to yours. Something breaks in his face. Something heâs been holding in for years. âI do,â he says.
So he stays. Not in your bed. Not with any expectations. Just on the couch. Shoes off, hoodie pulled over his head, hand falling asleep somewhere between you both. You wake up later to find his hand just barely brushing yours again. And you donât move it. Not this time.
You wake up to soft breathing and the faint rustle of blankets. The sun is barely up, gold bleeding gently through the curtains. You blink against it and register two things at once: Jay is still here. And so is your daughter, tucked against his side, tiny hand wrapped around his hoodie drawstring like she knew heâd protect her in her sleep.
Your heart clenches. You sit up slowly, blanket falling from your lap, and take them in. Jayâs head is tilted toward her, one arm around her back. Protective. Loose. Natural. His chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm, mouth slightly parted, lashes thick against his cheeks. He looks peaceful. He looks like someone you used to know. And in this moment â in your living room, on your couch, holding your daughter â he also looks like someone you could know again. Someone you want to.
You donât wake them. Instead, you slip quietly into the kitchen and start making breakfast. Youâre halfway through whisking eggs when you hear the soft creak of the floorboards.
Jay steps in, carrying your daughter on his hip, her cheek still red from sleep. âShe woke up and asked for you,â he says softly, like heâs not sure if heâs allowed to do this part, the normal part.
You glance at him over your shoulder. âThanks,â you murmur, watching as he gently lowers her into her booster seat.
He helps without asking: sets the table, fills her little cup with apple juice, grabs napkins. Itâs not choreographed. Itâs not even discussed. Itâs muscle memory. You make plates. He finds the right spoon for her. She babbles about a dream she had where a duck stole her blanket, and Jay listens like itâs the most important thing in the world. And for the first time in a long time, your kitchen feels full.
Later, he helps you fold clothes that no longer fit your daughter in the living room. He doesnât say much. Just folds the baby clothes carefully, the way you used to show him. Youâre about to thank him when he holds up a tiny pair of leggings and smirks.
âWhy does everything this small make me want to cry?â he jokes gently.
You glance over. âBecause you missed this part.â Jay flinches. You soften your tone. âI mean⌠you missed it. Not your fault. Just⌠time passed. And you werenât here for all of it.â
Jay looks down at the leggings again. âYeah.â
Silence stretches. You finish folding a shirt, placing it in the pile.
Then he says quietly: âYou made it look easy. But I know it wasnât.â You glance at him again. âI shouldâve been here.â
You donât answer. Because itâs not a question. He puts the folded pants aside and shifts to face you more directly.
âI donât want to be the guy who just drops in for soup and a bedtime story.â
You blink. âThen what do you want to be?â
Jay holds your gaze. âSomeone who stays. Someone you look forward to seeing in the morning and who comes home at night.â
Your throat tightens. You fold another shirt slowly, buying yourself time. Thenâsoftly: âYou donât feel like a guest anymore.â
He swallows. âYeah?â
You nod. And in the silence that follows, something like a promise begins to grow between you... unspoken, still fragile, but real this time.
That night, after your daughterâs asleep and the house is quiet, you sit on the edge of the couch with a glass of water and whisper: âStaying isnât about never leaving the house. Itâs about not leaving us.â
Jay nods, eyes locked to yours. âIâm not going anywhere,â he says, and you believe him. You really do.
Your daughterâs staying the night at your parentsâ place. A last-minute offer. âYou need a break,â your mom said over the phone. âWe havenât had her overnight in weeks.â
You almost said no. You almost felt guilty. But Jay, sitting across the room, gave you a quiet nod when he overheard the offer. A subtle, hopeful smile. And for some reason, you wanted to see what the night might feel like without the space between you constantly being filled by someone else.
So here you are. Just the two of you. Again.
The faucet is leaking in the kitchen. A rhythmic, hollow drip youâve been ignoring for a week now. But Jay doesnât. He grabs your small toolbox after dinner and crouches under the sink like itâs second nature.
You watch him work: sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing, a smudge of dust across his wrist. He mutters something under his breath when a bolt slips, and you smile without realizing.
âHow do you still know where everything is in my house?â you ask gently.
He doesnât look up. âIt was mine too. For a long time.â
You nod, even though he canât see it. It was. When he finally emerges from under the sink, flushed and slightly damp from the spray, you hand him a towel without thinking. Jay takes it â your fingers brushing â and he pauses.
Looks up at you. Lingers. You both stand there for a moment too long.
Your voice is quiet. âYou want tea or something?â
He hesitates. âSure.â
The tea never gets made. Because somewhere between boiling the water and finding the honey, he walks around the kitchen island and stands behind you â not too close, just there. Warm. Quiet. Waiting. You feel his presence before you turn. âJayââ you start, barely a breath.
âCan I ask you something?â he says, voice low. You nod. âIf I kissed you right now⌠would you stop me?â You freeze.
His voice is careful, reverent. âIâm not asking because I want to complicate things. Iâm asking because⌠I havenât stopped thinking about it since that night.â
You swallow hard. âI havenât either.â
He moves just a little closer. You can smell the clean scent of his hoodie. Feel the heat radiating from his chest. His fingers twitch at his side like he wants to reach for you, but wonât until you give him permission.
So you turnâslowlyâand meet his eyes. Thereâs something heavy in your chest. Hope, maybe. Fear. Longing. All tangled.
You whisper, âJayâŚâ
And he leans in, just enough that his nose brushes yours. âYou can stop me,â he murmurs, breath warm against your lips. âSay the word and Iâll pull away.â
You donât say it. Instead, you reach up, trembling and cautious, and press your palm to his cheek. His eyes flutter shut. Then you kiss him. Soft at first. Tentative.
But when his hand finds your waist, when you breathe his name into his mouth like it still belongs there, it deepens. Grows urgent. Familiar. He kisses like heâs still memorizing you. Like this moment matters. Like heâs afraid itâll disappear if he rushes it.
And for a long, quiet second, you let yourself feel it. All of it. The forgiveness. The ache. The still-burning truth that somewhere in you, you never stopped loving him. When you finally pull away, you're both breathless. Foreheads pressed together. Eyes shut.
Jay speaks first. âIâve waited years for that.â
You donât move. âWas it what you expected?â you whisper.
He huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. âNo. It was better.â
You could say something sarcastic. Deflect. Joke. But you donât. Instead, you whisper, âStay. Just⌠stay tonight.â
Jay meets your eyes. âI will.â
And this time, when you curl into him on the couch, itâs not out of convenience or exhaustion or obligation. Itâs because being close to him finally feels right again.












