#soft!pedro

synopsis

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven {a}

seven {b}

eight

nine

ten (smutty)

eleven (smutty)

twelve

thirteen

*number of chapters undetermined

"Maisy," he coos softly.

I lamely feign waking up, and open my eyes to see him perched on the edge of the bed, gazing down at me.

"Hey," his voice is all morning rasp, deep and scratchy. I rub my feet together under the sheets.

He flashes a brilliant smile and I know today's going to be a great day. "I gotta head out soon. I'm gonna wake Oliver. Can you be downstairs in like tenish?"

I tug the duvet under my chin, "Mhm."

He nods and his eyes take me in languidly. "Are you...feeling okay?"

My cheeks flush at his solicitous inquiry. "Yes, a little sore... but yes."

"Good."

He opens his mouth to say something else but never does.

He stands and jabs a thumb in the general direction of his son's nursery. "I'll wake him now."

The day ensues casually. I spend the forenoon tidying. There are so many things Pedro needs help with around the house and I know he didn't hire me as a cleaning lady, but I don't want to ignore them. Even though he's for sure going to be annoyed I pick up the slack. I vacuum the entire house, mop the kitchen and do a load of laundry during which process I may or may not give one of his used T-shirts a deep inhale.

Following lunch, I decide to take Oliver out for a stimulating walk and get ourselves ice cream. Post-walk, he's too cute and clingy and I'm too overcome with parental greediness so we crash on the couch.

×××

Pedro

I get home loaded down with bags of groceries for our Mexican-themed dinner and right as I step through the door, I notice how clean and tidy the space is. Across the hall, I hear the tumble dryer going, so she must’ve done the laundry, and all of Oliver’s toys that were scattered across every corner of the house just this morning have been put away.

She’s helping out wherever she can even though it’s not her responsibility.

I remember staunchly why I need to stop having fantasies about my son’s nanny.

She is the first good one I’ve ever had, and I’d be damned if I messed it up because my cock seems to react every time she does something nice for me or Oliver.

Okay, so maybe I am kidding myself with that. It isn’t just when she treats Oliver like her own, or when she does something around the house that she really doesn’t have to, or when she makes my life easier by doing what — in her words — is the bare minimum of a babysitter.

It is that she is otherworldy gorgeous.

Every small, ridiculous thing about her turns me on.

I need a cold, hard reality slap.

I need to stop fantasizing about my nanny.

No matter the strenuous jump-roping session I did after post-training that left me gasping for air and wincing against my ribs, the pain didn’t last.

As soon as I was on my way home, all my thoughts drifted to Maisy.

And at my core, a voice is telling me no amount of masturbation could help.

Which is a real fucking problem.

I shake the thoughts from my head, doing my damndest not to think too hard about her as I kick off my shoes and move further into the house, scooping out the rooms in hopes of finding my son or his unfairly beautiful nanny with a voice I can't get out of my head as it mewls my name.

I drop off the groceries in the kitchen and turn into the living room. At first, it appears empty but as I look over the backboard of the couch, Masiy cuddling my boy comes into view.

My heart thuds out of sync for many beats. I knead at the spot.

Rick made me do accessory work on my pectorals, that must be the reason for the soreness, I reason.

Roused by my ogling, Maisy stirs then blinks a few times as her vision clears and she reaclimates. When she sees me, a slow smile spreads across her plush, naturally cherry lips.

They are kissable lips, a voice says in my head.

I shoo it away. Inappropriate.

Instead, I focus on my boy. "Did you have a great nap, Buddy?" I ask, leaning over the couch and tickling Oliver’s belly.

Maisy sits up, propping my son on his knees.

My boy is all bed-head and dried drool from his nap. "Daddy," he mumbles, reaching for me.

I pick him up, and his little arms instantly go around my neck. My heart thuds with affection, and I cover his cheeks with kisses and he wiggles in my grasp, giggling.

"Sorry. I know I shouldn't have let him nap on the couch with me. But he was extra cuddly today and fell asleep on me while we watched a video of vegetables dancing and—," Maisy rambles.

The corners of my mouth quirks up in a small but fond smile. "It's okay. You don't have to explain yourself," I tell her reassuringly. "I trust your judgment with him."

She nods, her eyes flitting around me, her fingers fidgeting with her droplet necklace.

"I gotta take a quick shower, but we can get started on dinner after?"

"Sound great," she agrees, standing.

I let Oliver down. "I'll be right there with you."

She saunters into the kitchen, my son crawling after her.

He's still not quite walking but he can make a couple of steps on his own before losing balance. I try not to sweat over his slow but steady progress. He'll get there.

After a cold shower in the downstairs bathroom – and against my better judgement –, I wrap a towel around my waist and spy on the two of them for an idle moment.

Oliver sits on her hip as Maisy puts away the groceries. She announces each item she stores away, teaching him the names of vegetables and fruits. I should go back to my room and put some clothes on, but I just want to be around them.

Eventually though, a few more self-indulgent moments later I begrudgingly tear my eyes away from them and get dressed.

I put on some worn jeans and tug a crumpled white t-shirt on while descending the stairs. My bare feet make soft padding sounds as I walk into the kitchen. "Ready, chef?" I ask jokingly.

Maisy puts me right to work. I'm on prep duty, peeling, chopping, dicing anything she puts right in front of me. It's all awfully domestic. Oliver perches in his high chair, supervising us as he devours his less gourmet dinner of mashed potatoes and hard-boiled egg. There's music playing and Maisy sways her hips as she blows on the ladle and holds it out to me to taste.

"Careful, it's hot," she warns, gauging my reaction as I let the sauce dissolve on my tongue. "More salt? Five more minutes?"

"Five more minutes. Seasoning is spot on."

I’m wiping Oliver’s face clean with a damp cloth when I hear a hiss and a quiet Fuck coming from Maisy.

My eyes cut to her as she tosses the knife into the sink, and lifts a finger to her mouth.

"You okay there?" I ask, and I can hear the alarm in my voice. I'm not slick at all.

"I’m fine, just cut myself." She sounds fine but there’s a pleading ring to her voice—which I might make up in my head, but I don’t care. I want to take care of her.

Sitting Oliver on my forearm, I reach for her wrist, rotating her hand to inspect the damage, which is limited.

"Really, I’m fine," she says, avoiding my gaze as she pulls her wrist out of my hold and brings her finger back up to her mouth to stem the light trickle of blood.

I grab the makeshift first-aid kit I store under the sink and rifle through the contents, looking for the correct Band-Aid size.

“Let me,” I coax.

She lets out a heavy sigh, "Okay."

"Good girl," the title slips before I could stop myself. If she catches the insinuation, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

My hand wraps around her wrist again, guiding her finger from her mouth.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” I say, assessing the inconsequential cut.

“That’s what I told you,” she replies. I feel her intense, searching gaze on my face as I pull the Band-Aid from its wrapper, and place it with meticulous care.

"Maisy hurt?" Oliver pouts.

She laughs lightly, petting his head with her uninjured hand. "It’s just a little cut. I’m okay, it doesn’t even hurt," she assures my son.  

I work against the giddy smile that’s tugging on my lips.

I wrap the sticky ends together and delicately kiss the area where her cut is. “There.”

She shudders at the contact. “Thank you,” she whispers and turns away to resume work.

Before we sit down to eat, I tuck Oliver in for the night. When I return, a rosy-cheeked Maisy and a margarita is waiting on me. Even without the alcohol in my system, I feel warm and uninhibited.

Dinner is languid. We discuss how we prefer our hard-boiled eggs. We express our fears of growing old. We recall our first day as high schoolers, the number of our locker and the code combination.

Slightly tipsy, we get up to dance. Maisy is bashful at first but reassured by my awkward dance moves, lets herself loose. We do some consensual rubbing and grinding, the air between us charged. I'm nosing at her neck as we rock side to side, her back to my front, when George Michel's Father Figure comes on shuffle. It's a song I haven't heard in a while, and the lyrics sober me.

I break into a nervous sweat. We separate, I grab my phone and skip the song.

"You good?" she asks, her skin glistening.

"Yeah, yeah. It's just—, it's getting late and I have a session early tomorrow."

"Yeah, of course, you're right," she mumbles, but her face falls in disappointment, making me feel like the worst possible human.

I stack and carry our plates to the sink. I grip onto the edge of the kitchen counter and close my eyes. I feel her lingering presence. I blow out the air in my lungs, open my eyes and face her.

She's leaning against the counter, mirroring me, one of her hands toying with the hem of her sundress. "Thank you for tonight. I had fun."

A smile breaks across my face. "I enjoyed myself too," I say quietly.

Her eyes sparkle at my words and she perks up. She licks her plump lips, her throat bobbing with a swallow. I trace the movement.

"I—, I really want to kiss you right now," she divulges.

Heat rushes down, and my dick hardens with desire in my jeans.

"Can I kiss you?"

When she is this polite, who am I to resist the temptation?

It's like I'm a hormonal teenage boy. Lust overrides my consciousness. But I can't even pretend I'm not in way over my head. So, I chose to ignore it all and just live in whatever moment is right in front of me. Apparently, that is the opportunity to be kissed by Maisy.

Surging forward, I bend to meet her waiting mouth in an urgent kiss.

She melts into the kiss after a lag of surprise, her hands floating up to settle on either side of my jaw. Her touch is still tentative, even after the multiple orgasms I've given her, she's still too self-conscious to fully let her desires control her.

There's a different energy to her when it comes to intimacy. In normal day-to-day situations, she's opinionated, sure of herself and her values, but in bedroom-type situations, she's timid, coy.

I find it extremely sweet.

I know it's partly because of her inexperience but I think she likes to hand over the control. And I'm okay bearing the responsibilities.

I don't care to be particularly composed as I dole out my affection, the twisting of our tongues messy and clumsy with how badly I want to put my mouth all over her. I comb my fingers through her silky hair as her tongue meets mine. My hands roam down her sides, then loop around her waist to press her back into the counter.

Trailing my mouth down, I smear my kisses over the curve of her chin, the line of her jaw, then all the way down the column of her throat. She shivers, her hands pushing up into my hair.

I bend at the knees slightly, my palms cupping the backs of her thighs. "Hop," I murmur and I hoist her onto the kitchen island. Our lips disconnect for just a split second before she's chasing after me, grasping me by the nape of my neck.

I pry myself between her legs, her dress riding up but still concealing her as my hips slot between her plush thighs.

The way she kisses is needy, careless, unfettered. It turns me even more feral.

One of my hands moves up to cup the side of her neck, the other holds her by the ribcage. She wraps her legs around my middle, and her ankles cross, making the bulge in my jeans press against the heat of her. We both gasp at the contact.

I pull kiss after kiss from her until we're breathless and clamouring.

When she breaks for air, I reach behind to untangle her ankles. She mewls in protest but I don't backtrack. I'm on a mission to finally lick into her.

Giving her a placating kiss, I drop to my knees in front of her, feeling my pulse thrumming as I gaze up at her from this new position. Her hair is frizzy from my fingers running through it, and her chest heaves as she catches her breath through kiss-swollen lips.

She tugs at my hair, looking at me questioningly, but I don't make any move to get up, I stay right where I am. "Don't worry, flower, I'll take care of you."

My hands smooth over the length of her thighs, the fabric of her dress catching on my wrists as it pools around her hips. I grip her by the hips and pull her towards me so that she sits on the edge of the countertop, and hike her legs over my shoulders.

She yelps, choking on air.

In this position, I'm face to face with her heat, covered by a pair of blush pink thongs. There's a big wet patch on the gusset. She's completely soaked through. My erection twitches painfully in my pants, but I show some restraint.

Planting my mouth in a suctioning kiss on the flesh of her inner thigh, I start a new expedition.

As I pluck my teeth against the soft skin goosebumps raise on her skin, and she cries out my name."Pedro, w-we can take this to my bedroom, an—" she rushes, breathless.

I shake my head before she can finish. "Quit it," I bark lowly, her scent drugging me. "We're going to stay right here, sweetheart."

I drag my lips over her thighs, never fully parting from the flesh before I press another languid kiss to her skin.

"Oh God, oh God," she whimpers between gasps.

The closer I get to the apex of her thighs, the more unreal her scent is. I want to bury myself in her.

So I do.

I nose at where her clit is nestled away out of my sight, and she lets out the most angelic cry.

My fingertips tease the waistband of her underwear. "How was that? Did you like it when I nudged your aching little clit, baby girl?" I probe, peering up at her. Her cheeks are red, and her brows glisten with sweat.

"Mhump," she purrs. "Do it again, please?"

I lower my head and inhale deeply, her intoxicating smell filling my lungs. In response, she crumbles; she falls back onto her forearm.

I hook my thumbs under the string on her hips. "I gotta taste you. Been thinking about it all week, pretty girl." I tell her, trying to tame the keen edge in my voice. "Will you let me?"

A look of hesitation flashes behind her eyes, and her legs tremble (and not in the uncontrollable, post-coital way I would prefer, but in a nervous tick). Noting her uneasy, I reign in my desperation.

"You're nervous," I state.

She chews on her bottom lip. "I am," she says meekly.

I drop back onto my heels, and run my hands up and down the length of her thighs comfortingly before pressing a tender kiss onto each of her kneecaps. "If you want to stop or this is something you're not ready for, tell me. But you don't have to be nervous with me."

"Yes, I know," she speaks in a hushed tone, pouting. "I think what's making me nervous is that I'd never let a man touch me down there before you, let alone put his mouth on me so intimately."

"I'm aware of that," I say, my thumbs kneading at her.

"When you kissed me there—, I–I was overpowered with a rush of butterflies. I didn't know how to behave myself, it scared me."

"But they were a good kind of butterflies, yes?" She nods. "Well, you can always just tug on my hair. If anything that lets me know you're enjoying what I'm doing. How about you do that when you feel those butterflies?" I offer, sponging kisses to her kneecap.

She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. "Okay," she breathes softly.

"Now will you let me put my mouth on you?"

The slow but certain nod she gives is the permission I need before I'm finally shucking her underwear down her legs and unceremoniously stuffing them in my back pocket. A blissful sigh leaves me as I take in the glistening folds of the most beautiful cunt I've ever seen.

"Jesus, Maisy," I choke out in admiration. "How are you real? You're fucking stunning." There's a patch of downy hair above the cleft. Dark pinkish-purple folds gleam with her arousal. "God, you're fucking perfect."

"Thank you," she says softly.

Settling as comfortably as I can on my knees, I close that small, teasing distance, and plant my lips directly onto her clit. Her hips buck.

Another testing kiss and she stops breathing, her legs quaking around my head. I tsk. "Nah-ah. You need to spread your legs wider, sweetheart." I rasp and after a shuddering sigh, she obliges, parting those thick thighs even wider to give me access to the dark, wet heart of her.

I reward her with a long, slow swipe of my tongue across her leaking slit.

"Ohmygod," she slurs, thrusting her hips forward to chase after the sensation.

My lips lift in an impish smirk. She makes a keening noise, and the sound unlocks a deep well of joy inside me I'd never known existed.

Peering up at her, I push another budding kiss to her clit, this time watching the look on her face. Her eyes attempt to close, lashes kissing her cheekbones, with her mouth dropping into a small gape, and a pinch appearing between her brows.

After planting a slew of kisses on her clit, feeling her pulse jump against him, I slide my arms around to the backs of her thighs. My palms cuff the soft skin, fingertips denting into the gentle curve as I push her towards my face, angling her hips just so.

The scent of her lures me in and I scarcely hear her say my name as I move forward. I bend my head and feast from her. My tongue dips into the heart of her, tasting the wet as it oozes from within her, and my lips seal around her clit to suck, suck, suck until her legs tremble and she has to grip the edge of the countertop to cope.

I give her no mercy, and she doesn't ask me for any. She surrenders to my savage intentions so sweetly, it lights me on fire.

Clutching the dense swell of her ass in my hands, I haul her closer to my mouth.

The flat of my tongue slides through her slit over and over, collecting her wetness and revelling in the heady taste that was her before swallowing. I can feel her toes curl behind my back, her heels pressing into my spine to urge me into giving more. I smile around my ministrations as I zigzag my tongue over her pussy before turning my focus back on her clit.

Kissing at the bud, I speak as best I can without lifting my mouth from her.

"Y'taste so good, flower."

Her hands find my head, the tips of her fingers winding through my hair. "You—you're incredible. This—oh, God—is incredible."

Spurred on by her stuttered praise, I surge forward, replacing my lips with my tongue now laving over her clit. It's swollen between my lips as I give placating sucks to the bud, drawing the softest mewls from Maisy.

Diving down from her clit, I follow the split of her spread folds until I'm tonguing at her opening. Her wetness has spread to the inside of her thighs, my cheeks, and now the tip of my nose as I wag the flat of my tongue over her arousal-coated folds.

I jut my chin against her and thrust my tongue straight inside her pussy. She moans up to the ceiling. Her fluttering walls clench around me, welcoming me in.

I wriggle my tongue inside her, tracing along the ridges and curves. Her hands in my hair come alive then, tugging at the roots. Drilling my tongue inside her, I draw her higher and higher until her whimpers and gasps are obscenely lewd.

My cheeks are squished by her warm thighs, chin soaked in her slick and nose mushed against her clit.

I could do this all night, but I have a feeling Maisy's expiration is coming soon.

The telltale sign comes in the scrunch of her nose and her fluttering eyes.

"Gonna cum for me, baby girl?" I mouth against her clit, feeling her muscles bunch at the feeling of my voice vibrating around her.

A small whine crawls its way out of her throat as she nods, her mouth in nothing more than a gape.

"Want you to cum on my face," I croon, "Let me have it, sweetheart."

All it takes is a lingering suck of her clit before she's crumbling above me. My name leaves her mouth as if in prayer. Her back arches from the counter, pushing her hips that much closer to my face. Twitching with each pulsation that grips her, she holds me trapped against her, tossing her head in the throes of ecstasy.

I don't stop, feeling her clit pulsing between my lips. A cry dies in her throat when I move one hand from her ass to between her thighs to join my tongue inside her.

I drive a finger inside her snug cunt while sucking her clit between my lips. Her hands in my hair are shocked into a tight, unwavering grip, and heels dig into my back.

"Again," I demand against the inside of her thigh before curling another finger into that tight heat and flicking her swollen, throbbing clit with my tongue. "Give me one more."

She cries out then, louder and louder.

This time, when she orgasms, I fuck her even harder through it, fingers pressing into the front wall of her pussy, punishing a soft spot that makes her wail and ride my face without one iota of shame.

And if I don't I almost cream myself.

I carry her away for several long minutes, lapping her slower and slower until she grows too sensitive.

When she climbs down from her high, I'm still kissing her sloppy, swollen folds.

"Too much, too much," she whimpers, pushing my face away from her.

Drawing away, I look up at her. A slow, private smile spreads across her face. My heart gives a warm thump. Seeing her unwound for me...

Hell. I could easily get used to this. But it was only sex... right? Two consenting adults enjoying each other's bodies.

Easing her thighs from my shoulder, I move up her body to kiss those sweet lips. "You did good, so good, baby girl."

I fix her dress despite there being no reason to hide after what we just did, smoothing the fabric over her hips in a grounding touch. Wrapping an arm around her waist, I start her towards her bedroom.

"Let's get you cleaned up."

With her eyes hooded and movements lethargic, I guide her upstairs. Flicking on the light in her room, I deposite her on the edge of her bed. I watch with an affectionate smile as she flops back into the mattress, arms falling above her head as she stretches out.

I leave her to her quiet soothing and step into her bathroom.

Just as I thought, my cock is still impossibly hard in my pants, hiding a drenched spot on the front of my briefs where I've been leaking blurts of precum while tasting the very same girl who nannies my son and is the daughter of my coach.

I adjust myself and rid of the thought.

I find a small cloth under the sink cabinet, wet it and walk back to her. Her eyes open lazily, and her cherry lips slit into a small, intimate smile. Her feet dangle from the edge of the bed, and I kneel.

"Is it alright if I push up your dress again, sweetheart?" I ask, voice a low croon in the quiet of her bedroom. "Just gonna clean you."

"Okay," she mumbles, lifting her hips some as I push up the hem.

She wordlessly spreads her thighs and I make quick work of wiping up her arousal that dripped to the inside of her thighs. When I touch her clit, hoping it would be so fast she wouldn't notice, I earn a small hiss, her legs recoiling to close around my hand.

"Too much," she reminds me, a pout evident in her voice.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," I murmur, compounding my words with a kiss to the cuff of her knee.

A strong urge to take proper care of her grips me. I do the whole boyfriend experience; I get her a clean pair of underwear—a quick rummage around her underwear drawer reveals a lacy black thong that I make her wear—, and her sleep shirt from under her pillow, even going as far as draping the duvet over her and pressing a kiss into her hairline, which is beyond overkill.

I close the door behind me and the realization clangs through me; I'm catching feelings.

Maisy

I wake in the middle of the night, totally placated.

I get up to use the bathroom, and as I sit on the toilet, flashes of Pedro between my thighs sizzle across my mind.

My cheeks and neck flame up at the memory of what he'd done.

There was no hesitancy, no politeness in the way he kissed, licked, sucked. I felt totally out of control, and what's more, I wanted to be out of control.

And when he added his fingers... my mind felt like it went straight through a shredder and into a kaleidoscope.

When I came two consecutive times, I was left floating, drifting in a current of Pedro. He was still licking me, except more slowly, as if with no purpose but to savour me.

And then he rose over me, and kissed me, unconcerned with where his mouth had been just seconds earlier. I dimly wondered in that moment if I should be put off by that, but I was still violently twitching with pleasure, contracting with aftershocks that I couldn't make myself care.

He then proceeded to support me up the stairs, took care of my mess and dressed me for bed. I was half-asleep when he kissed my hairline, and I remember sinking into a sense of security that my brain linked to Pedro.

Pedro is big into aftercare.; without fail, he always makes sure I'm comfortable after we've been intimate, but last night felt significant, especially since he went down on me for the first time and I was in such a woundable state. He might consider aftercare as part of our arrangement, but thinking about it, I get a high emotional charge.

I know that he isn't playing any mind games on me because he's equally considerate and kind to me when we aren't making out, but still, I can't help but wonder how he would treat me if I were his—his girl, for real.

At the thought of there being an us, an emergency alarm goes off in my brain. I'm getting way ahead of myself. I'm starting to think our deal could turn into something more which is stupid and foolish and just all around messy what with our age gap and his close relationship to my dad.

I flush, and wash my hands.

Staring into my reflection, my inner voice asks, I won't be able to be remotely normal about Pedro and our arrangement going forward, will I?

"No, I definitely won’t, " I speak aloud.

He's been fighting a sickness over the past few days, and his temperature hasn't gone down.

He was fussy and uncomfortable all morning. His throat is swollen and his nose has been running non-stop. I tried everything to alleviate some of his discomfort; shushing him, giving him a lukewarm bath, offering plenty of fluids, using the air humidifier, all to no avail. By midday, I was so worried I called Pedro.

He was panting when he picked up. "Yes?" he spoke into the receiver, his tone curt.

We've both gone three nights without getting a full night of sleep, taking turns taking care of Oliver.

And now I was disrupting his workouts because I couldn't do my job of caring for his son.

"I think I should take Oliver to the doctor's," I said.

We agreed to meet at the hospital and hang up.

Now in the hospital's pediatrics ward, I sign Oliver in, handing the nurse a hardcopy of the authorization form that allows me to be present during Oliver's treatment, which Pedro signed in advance should a case like this arise.

Oliver and I take a seat on one of the teal chairs that faces a television that plays cartoons. I bounce him a little in hopes of soothing him.

I'm trying to comfort him, but from what I've learned over the last few days, the only person he wants when he doesn't feel well is his dad.

"You're okay, Oliver. Shh." I run a hand over his back before lightly pressing his head into my shoulder, hoping it'll force him to rest.

It doesn't. He wails his little lungs, his cry deafening next to my ear.

"Dadda," he sobs, his innocent eyes rimmed in red as he frantically looks around the busy waiting room. "I want Dadda!"

"I know. I know. He'll be here soon."

He doesn't stop, somehow finding the lung capacity to scream even louder.

I can almost feel all the other moms and dads' eyes on me, judging me.

I know how to entertain Oliver, how to figure out what he needs, whether that's food, sleep, or a diaper change. But I have no idea how to help him when he's this sick or upset.

I stand and start pacing with Oliver in my arms. The bouncing doesn't seem to settle him as he wails louder. "I know, Bug. I'm sorry. A doctor will see us soon and you'll be better."

What feels like hours but is probably just minutes, a nurse approaches us. "A doctor will see Oliver now."

I grab Oliver's diaper bag and follow the nurse.

We're rounding a corner when a deep voice calls my name. "Maisy! Wait!"

I turn to see Pedro rushing toward us, wearing his gym clothes. "Hey, hi," he says when he reaches us. "Sorry I took so long. I got here as fast as I could."

Pedro strokes his son's cheek with the back of his fingers. The boy's wail softens to a sniffling cry and he melts into my arms now that his dad is here.

Pedro doesn't take Oliver from me as we're escorted to an exam room, but hovers over the two of us protectively, a warm hand resting on my lower back as I carry his son.

I try not to pay much attention to the fact that I am too much more at ease now that Perdo is near.

Pedro

Thankfully Oliver didn't need to be kept in for overnight observation. After a doctor examined him, he got a round of fluids via an IV drip and was prescribed some medication to help lower his fever.

The whole time, Maisy was fidgeting with her necklace as she looked on. She didn't stray from my son's bedside while he got his treatment, letting him clutch onto her pointer finger.

By the time we get to the front door of my brownstone, the baby Tylenol has finally kicked in and Oliver is contently laying on my shoulder.

We order in, neither Maisy or I in the mood to cook dinner, and we cuddle up on my couch, a sitcom playing in the background.

It's still a bit early for Oliver's bedtime so he hangs out with us, walking lapses of the coffee table but not daring to let go of the edge as he balances himself.

He allows us to scarf down our Indian takeaway in peace before the bedtime fussiness gets the best of him.

I pick him up, cradling his head as I bop around the living room. Maisy offers a sympathetic smile as she stands to gather our empty plates.

Oliver works himself into a burbling mess, and as much as it pains me, I'm not who he wants right now.

My son is making grabby hands at the pretty girl teetering on her feet under the archway leading into the living room.

"What's that, Buddy?"

He points at Maisy again. "Mmm."

"Are you trying to say Maisy?" My chest wells with emotion.

"Mmm."

"Yeah, that's Maisy over there."

My gaze meets with Maisy's and a pout stretches her naturally raspberry-pink lips.

"Want me to try?" she offers softly.

I nod, wordlessly handing over my son.

"Come here." She takes Oliver from me, situating his head on her shoulder. "You're okay," she croons. "You're all right, Bug. I've got you."

I sink with relief watching Maisy comfort my son. She supports Oliver's head and starts to sway around the house as she tries to settle him.

The softest singing voice echoes throughout the space as she sings into Oliver's ear. She soothes him tirelessly, placing soft kisses on his head between lyrics and within a minute or two my boy is fully content, snuggled into the crook of Maisy's neck.

She continues singing lullabies as she carries Oliver up to his nursery. I trail after them, my chest swelling with a foreign tenderness.

I make myself useful and close the blinds and turn on the air humidifier while she rocks my son to sleep.

In a matter of minutes, he dozes off. She tucks him in, gently placing his current favourite plushie by his head.

We stand there for a moment, peering down into my son's crib as his chest rises and falls with even breaths.

She then turns to me with a sweet little smile and leans her head on my shoulder.

I don't find it in me to reject her, to tell her that this—her head on my shoulder—is crossing a line.

I don't want to reject her.

But fuck does she have my whole belief system at war.

I close my eyes, blow the air in my lungs through my nose.

How have I gotten myself into this situation? Falling for an off-limits woman. Because that's exactly what I've done in the last two weeks, I've fallen, hard. I should've been more careful, spent less time with her, pushed away my fantasies. But I couldn't, even as I felt myself tumbling down this rabbit hole, I couldn't stop myself.

And what scares me the most is that I didn't even want to.

I open my eyes and gaze down at my son.

I think today was the day he realized that he has a support system outside of me. I know he did because I did so too.

Oliver loves her. It's evident in the way he looks at her, in the way he reaches for her when she's near. She brings him a sense of comfort he was missing, and she equally brings me the same knowing how well they get along.

Overwhelmed with gratitude for Maisy, I slide my hand into hers and jerk my head in the general direction of downstairs.

Maisy

Pedro leads me downstairs, into the kitchen.

When we get to the kitchen island, he lets go of me, rakes a hand through his lush curls, and leans against the counter.

I eye him curiously. He's slouching, clearly tired both physically and emotionally. The past few days have drained us.

He scratches his stubbled jaw. His movement draws my attention to the heart-shaped patch in his rakish beard. I wonder how ticklish his stubble would feel against my palm, on my stomach or on my inner thigh.

No, not going to go there, I scold myself.

I bite the inside of my cheek to bring myself back to reality.

We're remarkedly quiet, not a single word has been spoken between us since I lulled Oliver to sleep.

Hesitant and sheepish, characteristics that are so unlike him, Pedro moves closer just an inch. I wouldn't notice his subtle approach if I weren't acutely aware of his body heat.

His nearness fills me with warmth and comfort. I want to reach out and touch him to make myself believe he's actually here.

His hand is on the counter right next to me as he leans back on his palms, and tentatively, I cover it with my own.

He doesn't stop me. He uses his thumb to trap my fingers, softly stroking the supple skin between my thumb and pointer finger.

I don't dare to brave eye contact and instead drag my gaze across the dimly lit kitchen.

There are endless dishes in the sink that I remind myself to tackle tomorrow. Piles of laundry he needs to fold. Knowing him, he's going to try to get it all done on his one day off this week, but I'll pick up the slack when he's back in the ring tomorrow, and I'm sure he'll be annoyed that I helped. He's prideful like that, wanting to do it all on his own.

"I just wanted to say thank you." He breaks our silence. "For taking care of Oliver." He pauses, his voice softer. "We're lucky to have you."

A beaming smile slowly lifts the corners of my mouth. "Well, the feeling is mutual."

"I'm beyond grateful that you treat him with uttermost gentleness. I don't think you know just how much happiness you bring to him." He sighs, says above a whisper, "He appreciates you, and I do too. Tremendously. And I'm not sure I can repay you for the love you give to my boy."

My heart cracks at that, opening in a way I don't want it to. He's too good, too sweet, emotionally mature. Too goddamn hot for his own good.

He keeps stroking my hand.

We both follow his languid movement with our eyes, an electric frisson leaping from him to me each time he smoothes the pad of his thumb over my flesh.

My heart thumps, quick and sharp, at the way his dark eyes take me in, the way the corner of his mouth tips up in a private smile.

Our gazes lash together and I get the same drugging rush of excitement when I'm at a concert and the bassist starts to play the buildup to the bridge of the song.

Pedro's intense eyes pinion me to the spot. My blood pulsates in the tops of my ears.

As we stare into each other's eyes, the moment feels like a soap bubble, something that's bound to burst one way or another.

And then it does.

"I'm gonna kiss you," he tells me huskily, perhaps to acknowledge what we're doing or perhaps he's sensed I might need to be forewarned.

His mouth crashes down on mine then and I'm compliant, letting him take what he wants.

He cups my jaw with one warm hand, his other hand pulling me into his body by the gentle hold he has on my waist.

I still don't know what to do with myself when it comes to kissing so I simply grasp onto his impossibly broad shoulders, bracing myself.

He licks into me and I gasp, fisting his shirt.

"Taste so sweet," he groans, turning to kiss me the other way.

I'm disintegrating on the spot. This is all too much yet nowhere near enough. 

For a moment we break apart. To catch our breath, or maybe to end whatever this has turned into. But as soon as I find his bottomless eyes I'm hit with a revelation so earth-shattering, it spins me off my axis.

I don't want to end it. Whatever this is, I want more of it.

He must feel it too because our gaze lasts no longer than a second before our lips connect again and he's devouring me.

"Why am I unable to stop myself with you?" He murmurs the words against my lips, his voice strained. My heart is beating so hard that I get a little dizzy. "You are going to wreck my world, and I'm going to let you."

He closes back in for a hungry kiss, nibbling on my bottom lip before flinching. "What the fuck are we doing?" he asks raggedly, still holding me, his chocolate brown eyes filled with torment.

"I don't know," I say.

A low, frustrated sound dies in the back of his throat, and he stills, his mouth ghosting mine. "This is a bad idea,  Maisy,"  he says hoarsely, but he doesn't step back. "We can't be together."

"I know that," I say, choking on my words.

And I do. So why does hearing it feel like rubbing salt into an open wound?

"Maisy." His voice cracks, and I will not let him say it. I refuse. I will not let him say how we can't do this. How this is wrong. How he's wrong for me.

"Please. I'm okay with this," I whimper, unabashedly desperate, "I want you," I hiccup. "Please, Pedro, I want you so bad."

"We—I—, this is messy," he reasons, his forehead resting against mine. "I don't want Oliver to get hurt because I can't keep my dick in my pants." His eyes are pinched and his brows are knitted, he looks as if in agony.

"It doesn't have to be messy," I say.

He gives a low, scraping laugh, but he stays serious. "It already is," he says, "When you override all rational thought."

I swallow a thorny knot and blurt. "I—I have a proposition. I think I know how we can work."

He opens his mouth to interject but I go on. "We think of it as an arrangement. You teach me about bedroom stuff and I can be you're good time."

He's a man, and as a man, he can teach me a lot about men's pleasure, and we can get my awkward firsts out of the way. He'll be my springboard into dating, I rationalize.

He regards me expressionlessly as he grinds his molars. "So it's purely transactional?"

"Yes, if that's what you want too," I say, not letting my schoolgirl infatuation bleed through.

Now is not the time to tell him I want him to eat my soul. To take down my walls and build me up again.

I can fake it. I can pretend. I can deny my budding feelings for him. This can work.

"I want some rules put in place to make sure we are both clear about what this little arrangement is."

I nod eagerly, ready to agree to any of his terms. I know I'm being naively willing and accommodating but at the same time I want this, he is not forcing himself on me.

"No PDA unless we are hooking up," he begins. "And no sleepovers."

I nod again.

"And most importantly," he says, all serious. "There needs to be constant communication. It's either consensual or I'm not touching you."

"I understand," I say in a heartbeat.

A wry smile graces his plush and moustached lips before he turns solemn once again.

"I need to hear you say something for me. And I need you to be honest now," he says, his eyes boring into me. "Before we agree on any of this, I need you to tell me this is consensual. That you want this too. The last thing I want is for you to get hurt. I don't want you to ever feel like I'm grooming you. Or that I'm corrupting you or anything like that."

"You don't make me feel like that. This arrangement doesn't make me feel like that. I want this. I feel safe with you. I trust you," I divulge truthfully.

"And you're absolutely sure you're not weirded out by our age gap?"

Yes, we have a twelve-year age gap but I'm an adult too. It's not like I'm underaged. I can consent to our arrangement in my right conscience.

"I'm absolutely sure." I cement then say, "One more thing... my dad can never find out about this. It'd be way too awkward."

"Yes, that, no telling your dad."

All the things I told myself, all the reasons this is a bad idea, seem inconsequential. All that seems to matter is him and the bone-deep desire I have for this man. We can work. Sure, he's the dad whose kid I nanny, but only until I leave to go back to work. Yes, he works with my dad, but if we keep this between us, then my father will never have to know.

Pedro's nose moves against mine, causing a shiver to run through me. His hands mount my neck and then cradle my face.

I rest one of my hands on his abdomen, his muscles contracting under my touch, and nudge my nose against his. "Aren't you gonna kiss me now?" I tease but my shaky voice gives away my nerves.

Just because I want him, it doesn't mean I'm not nervous.

"You're endearing," he tells me with a low chuckle, then kisses me square on the mouth, hard, like a stamp, and walks me over to the couch. "First lesson: French kissing."

×××

Heavenly. Pedro's lap is one of the most heavenly places on earth, as it turns out.

He's warm and solid, like a giant teddy bear you can win at funfairs, and he doesn't seem to mind having me draped over him.

I'm straddling his hips on his couch and he's kissing me deliberately.

Our kisses are little more than pecks—his lips pressing against mine and his hand on my waist steady me. It's all sweetheart innocence yet something warm and liquid collects at the bottom of my belly.

The sensation is not unpleasant, but confusing and a bit scary.

"Still with me?" Pedro probes between kisses.

"Hmm," I squeak. If being okay means I've forgotten my name twice in the last few minutes, yeah, I'm perfect.

"Good," he rasps. One of his oversized hands travels the length of my side and settles on my ribcage, his thumb stroking me just under my bra.

The way he is kissing me now is different from the way he was kissing me in my bedroom that first time. He was reluctant, almost unwilling to kiss me, and now he is...insisting.

Maybe I'm being fanciful. What do I know about different types of kisses, anyway?

When his tongue slips between my lips, I go stock-still. His tongue is in my mouth. I can't stop myself from cringing.

It's far too personal and unhygienic.

"This okay?" I must have lingered too long inside my head, because he is looking at me with a concerned frown, his thumb sweeping back and forth on my hip bone. "You're tense." His voice is hoarse.

"It's just—, it's weird?" I mumble.

His eyes soften and he regards me with tenderness as he thinks up some sorcery to make me feel better. "Think of it like a caress," he proposes. "Do you want me to try it again?"

I swallow dryly. My stomach is in knots.

"Don't look so nervous, sweetheart," he chuckles lightly. "We don't have to if you don't want to. Not trying to pressure you into anything."

"I know," I tell him. His reassurance that I'm the one in charge settles me. "Okay. Let's give it a try."

"Alright," he murmurs softly and bends toward my mouth again.

I fist his shirt and brace myself.

Instead of pushing his tongue between my lips, he kisses me like he had before, sponging closed-mouthed kisses onto my mouth.

These I can do.

He's easing me into it, I realize, because he keeps kissing me in an unhurried procession. His tactic is working, some of my stress drains away, and I unclench.

The very tip of his tongue sneaks out and traces my lower lip then. I part my lips for him and he slides in for long enough to touch my own before retracting and kissing me.

Over and over again, he gives me a brief taste of salt and heat, and then retreats. He brushes at my lips with maddening strokes, dips inside for the merest second, before he withdraws.

I'm growing frustrated. The closed-mouth kisses I liked so much in the beginning are no longer enough.

He sucks on my bottom lip and laves the sensitized skin before taking my mouth again. I feel the still foreign wet heat of his tongue slips in, tasting me. I don't know quite what to do so I follow his lead, allowing him to continue his little ministrations while I try to get a small taste of him as well.

His arm moves under my shirt, circling my waist. His other hand keeps cupping my jaw, angling my head.

My hands tour his wide chest. I can make out every tendon of muscle flexing and contracting as he moves against me. I throw my arms around his neck then, and I have the strangest urge to plunge my fingers into his hair.

"You can touch me however you want," he rasps against my kiss-slicked lips, as if reading my mind.

God, I hope he can't.

He closes back in, deepening our kiss, and I glide my hands up into his chestnut brown curls, feeling the smooth strands fall through my fingers.

He twins his tongue with mine and we find a rhythm. His incredibly high stamina surpasses mine, and he has to stop kissing me every now and then to let me catch my breath.

"You need to learn how to breathe through your nose," he says, touching his mouth before returning his hands to my midsection.

"Okay," I croak, awkwardly smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt I've caused.

"God, you're adorable," he croons, his smile widening.

I blush, and feel as if a dose of endorphins has just been injected into my bloodstream.

He tips my chin up then and crushes his lips down on mine.

He guides me through the growing familiarity of the contact. He couples my bottom lip between his two and uses his thumb on the hinge of my jaw to coax it open. My mouth yields to his and as he deepens our kiss, I involuntarily rock into him.

He moans at that and I swallow the sound.

He grants me small breaks to catch my breath before diving back in, and asks for reassurance that I'm doing alright every now and then.

My hands roam with appreciation while his stay stationary.

His palm pressing into my lower back feels like it could singe a handprint onto my skin. He brushes against the base of my spine, setting my heart aflutter.

I feel hot, heavy and there's a bubbly pit in my belly.

Is this what being turned on feels like?

Coming up for air, I say, "Oh my God, you're a great kisser."

For a millisecond, he stares at my mouth like I took something that he wants back. He blinks then, focusing on me.

He sweeps his thumb across my lower lip. "You're a quick learner," he drawls. "Doing so good, sweetheart."

I preen at his compliment. Nestling closer to him, something stiff prods the apex of my thighs, and I draw my head back to look down between our bodies. He has a prominent hard-on.

"Ignore that," he coos, hooking his pointer finger under my chin, the gentle pressure coaxing me to face him. "We'll cover that another time," he says with a boyish grin.

Then we kiss until all our jaw muscles are numb.

Pedro

It's one am. when we declare our first session a success and head upstairs to sleep in our separate beds.

"See you around, coach," Maisy teases after a moment of consideration, fidgeting on her doorstep, before she retreats to her bedroom.

In my room, I slump against the door, burying my face into my hands with a heavy sigh and replay the past few hours.

I shut my eyes and the image of her, on top of me, and those wide brown eyes that are fixed on me, excited and eager to learn, but tinged with a hint of something uncertain, appears in my mind.

My lips are still tingling from the feel of hers. My hair is unruly from her persistent tugging.

And I still have a boner.

She wants to learn and I'm just enjoying myself, that's all that was on the couch and it's all that ever be. A transactional relationship.

But, fuck, I'd be a lying son of a bitch if I said that the thought of being her first, of being the one to teach her didn't turn me on.

I smack myself on the back of the head, locking away my Maisy-infused fantasies.

I push off the door and stride into the en-suite, shedding my clothes and turning on the faucet.

I need to release some tension.

And I one-hundred percent will not do so while thinking about Miasy.

Or so I tell myself. But the moment I step into the shower my throbbing cock is in my fist, and I pump myself long and slow until the tension coiled inside me rips through me like an electric current.

Scrubbing a hand across my face, I make my way downstairs to get my morning cup of coffee. I move around stealthily, a skill I mastered the moment Oliver came into my life. I unload the dishwasher and draw the curtains while the coffee machine powers up. I go into the living room to let the morning light in when I spot Maisy. I'm surprised to find her already out of bed, she usually wakes an hour behind me.

I haven't seen her from the kitchen because the back of the couch hid her petite form. She's in her typical sleepwear attire—a pair of shorts that reveal her slender legs and a cosy hoodie to ward of the morning chill. She lies on the couch, curled up on her side, clutching a hand to her lower belly. "Are you okay?" I speak softly in hopes of not startling her.

"I'm fine," she answers with her eyes closed.

She doesn't look fine. She looks like she's having the period of hell. She winces.

"Have you taken anything yet?" I tread carefully. 

"I took two Aspirins at five am." Even her words sound painful.

Having a period must seriously suck.

I check the time on my phone. "You can alternate with Motrin. I have some in my gym bag," I offer.

She just nods, rubbing her thumb across the expanse of her stomach. I grab two pills and bring them back with a glass of water and hand it to her. She takes them gratefully.

"Thanks," she mumbles, flopping back against the cushions, closing her eyes once more. "How do you know all these things?"

"I'm thirty-four. I've been with enough women to know the drill. Also, have you seen any box match? My body is constantly in pain." I say and a little smile tugs on the corners of her perfectly pink lips.

After my forenoon training session, I stop off at a bodega and grab her some feminine hygiene products, just in case. My kindness certainly doesn't have anything to do with my dislike of seeing her in discomfort, I lie to myself.

When I arrive home, I locate her in Oliver's play area. She's camping on the floor with my son as they play with building blocks. I drop the bag of tampons and pads by her feet. "Didn't know what you preferred so I got a selection," I mutter.

Frowning, she peers into the top of the bag. I watch as her expression morphs with emotion. "You didn't have to. Let me get my wallet."

She moves to stand but I wave her off. "It's okay. Don't worry about that."

She gives me a bashful smile. She already seems to be feeling better. The Motrin must be working. "Have you had anything for lunch?" She shakes her head. "How does a grilled cheese sound?"

"No, Pedro, you really don't have to do all that," she protests but I'm already halfway to the kitchen.

"I have to throw something together for lunch anyways, so you want a grilled cheese or not?"

She groans. "Ugh! Fine. Make me one."

I'm aware that what I'm doing isn't slick, and that my curiosity towards her is entirely wrong. Taking care of her on her period and buying her feminine hygiene products sound far too boyfriend-y to me.

I am not attracted to Maisy. Not even a little. I tell myself but my dick doesn't seem to care.

×××

The next day, she goes on a coffee run with Oliver. I know because she comes by the gym to tell me about it with a proud smile on her face.

It's the first time she's come to the gym since I hired her to nanny Oliver. She burst through the door, radiating eternal sunshine. My son is strapped to her chest in a baby sling, his head resting on her chest, his arms and legs slathered in sun cream.

She greets Magda at the front desk, turning her body so the receptionist can better see Oliver who squeals in greeting.

Maisy is heading towards me now and my heart starts working overtime. I stop the swinging of the sandbag with my hands, discard my boxing gloves and comb my fingers through my curls.

She's wearing a floral print sundress paired with white tennis shoes and her hair is styled in a dutch braid. A few whips of baby hair have come loose, I feel myself wanting to reach up and tuck them behind her delicate ear. Instead, I rub my thumb and forefinger together.

"We got you coffee," she chimes, holding a small takeaway cup. "It's a double shot, no sugar, no milk." I open my mouth to protest, but she beats me as she adds, "A thank you for the other day."

"Thanks." I take it from her, giving it a swirl before swiging it. "What did you guys do today?"

Maisy toys with Oliver's hands that are dangling at his sides. "We went to a quaint little coffee shop, sat on the terrace and people-watched," she says. "We were brave around strangers, didn't we, Bug?"

"Oh, you were?" I ask, petting my son's head lovingly. He perks up at the sound of my voice.

"Dadda," he exclaims.

I chuckle. "That's right, buddy, I'm your daddy."

"Do you, uhm," she swallows thickly, heat colouring the apples of her cheeks. Have me uttering the word daddy made her blush? "Do you want me to get him out of this thing so you can hold him?" Her hands fiddle with the straps of the sling.

"No, that's alright," I assure her. I let my son clutch onto my thumb and we stay quiet for a moment. From the corner of my eyes, I see her take in the space around us.

Sandbags of various sizes and shapes hang from the ceiling, behind us two boxing rings stand on elevated platforms with ropes squaring them.

In one of the rings, two shirtless twenty-something guys fight against one another. I wonder briefly if she finds either of them attractive. She probably does; they're her age, childless and universally good-looking.

To our right, there's a handful of rowing machines and assault bikes and a mobility area. There's a hallway to our left leading to the locker rooms and coaches' offices.

"I'm done for today. I've gotta take a shower and change but if you guys wait, we can drive back together." I speak up, letting go of my son's tiny hand.

"Sure," Maisy agrees with a beaming smile, smoothing a hand down Oliver's hair.

"Okay, I'll be quick," I say, shoving my workout gear into my duffle bag. "Your dad's still here if you want to say hi to him," I tell her, walking backwards to the locker rooms.

Once outside, I walk her to the private parking lot behind the gym. I've got Oliver perched on my forearm and my gym bag dangling from my other shoulder.

"Do you need help with that?" Maisy offers.

"No, it's alright, I got it."

We get to my car and I open the passenger door for her. She lowers into the seat with a sweet, coy smile I don't miss playing on her kissable mouth.

Shooing away my controversial desires, I put my duffle bag in the trunk before situating Oliver in his car seat.

"I'd imagine you rich people drive more lavish cars," she says and our eyes meet in the rearview mirror.

I laugh. "Well, first of all, my car is on the lavish side of the spectrum." I drive a sleek, black Audi A8. "And second of all, I'd say your dad is pretty well off too, don't you agree?"

"Okay, you got me there, but an Audi? Come on, man."

I give the straps of my son's car seat a gentle tug to make sure they're tight but not too tight around his body.

"Hey, I love my car. Plus, I don't need a flashier one." I tell her, getting behind the wheel. "I don't blow my money on things for the sake of having them. That's just not who I am. I have like ten shirts in my wardrobe."

"Then what do you do with your money?"

I slow to a stop at a red light. "I donate half of my income to charity."

"Really? Where to?"

I glance over at her with an impish grin. "Well, currently I'm housing this unemployed college graduate. Total charity case. Tragic story, really."

She lightly swats at my arm, laughing. "Shut up."

The traffic light turns green and I start driving again. "I donate to lesser-known nonprofits that serve impoverished schoolchildren," I divulge, taking on a more serious tone. "My main goal is making sure kids have the textbooks they need for class and food for lunch. And part of my sponsorships is that every year my sponsors have to match my donation in gifting sportwear to kids who need something to wear in order to be active," I elaborate. "There's so much more that could be done but I have no idea how. It feels overwhelming."

Later that night, once I tucked Oliver in, I knock on her door.

She invites me in. I push the door open but decide to linger in the doorway. "I'm gonna put on Gladiator II. Wanna join?" I propose, leaning my forearm on the doorframe.

She's pottering around the room, storing away folded clothes. "I would love to, but I haven't even seen part one."

"Then let's watch part one first."

She chuckles lightly, sweetly. I curse at myself and my obvious desperation to spend more time with her.

"When's showtime?"

"Whenever you want."

"Alright. I'll be downstairs in a minute," she says, and as she breezes past me to the guest bathroom, her flowery scent heads me.

As inconspicuous as I can be, I inhale every note of her smell.

Then a wave of guilt washes over me.

This isn't right. Me lusting after my coach's daughter, after the girl who looks after my son, it couldn't get any more morally grey than this.

I should shut down my developing feelings for her because she's way too young for me and even if age wasn't a problem, there's no way in hell she thinks of me as I think of her.

I hate myself for not being strong enough to close the door on my selfish feelings.

×××

The next day I only have my morning gym session since two days from now I'll be in the ring. To prepare I'm tapering which means less time in the gym and more time resting.

When I get home, the house is loud with cackles of glee. The sounds guide me into the kitchen where Oliver and the girl who is rapidly climbing the ranks to be my second favourite person are baking.

Maisy's nose is covered in flour as is Oliver up to his elbows. He's displaying a toothy grin and is clapping enthusiastically, making dust clouds.

Maisy's got my son situated on her left hip and as he wiggles in her arms, her sundress inches up. I give the bare skin an appreciative glance. She sees me do it. Wearing a bashful expression, she tugs the fabric down.

"We—well, I made cookies." She slides a plate in front of me across the kitchen island.

"Chocolate chip?" I ask with a smirk playing on my mouth, my gaze lifting to meet hers.

She lets Oliver down and leans on her elbows. "Mhm. Whoever bakes them with raisins needs to be locked up."

I chuckle and grab one. "Agreed," I say through a mouthful and as it dissolves on my tongue, I let out an obnoxious moan. "Maisy, these are ridiculously good." I take another bite.

My compliment makes her beam. "Thank you," she mumbles softly.

We share a cookie in companionable silence while watching Oliver crawl across the floor. Then I suggest we go out for coffee and she obliges me with it, even lets me pay for her iced latte.

We take our coffees to go and drink it in the nearby park. We lounge in the grass, Oliver squirming on his back between our bodies. She asks me about my training strategy and how I feel about my upcoming match. I tell her that I'll be getting the jitters the morning of but as for now, I feel confident about it. Then I inquire about her job-hunting. She gives a terse answer and I spare her my many follow-up questions. Instead, I get her talking about her degree. Her eyes shine as she explains Wallerstein's world system theory and how that changed herperception of international relations. What she's saying is so complicated for me that I lose track after the first couple of sentences but still nod along to make her feel like she isn't boring me because she truly isn't.

At home that night, I give Oliver a bath and I shower while Maisy watches him. Then I take over once more and get my son bed-ready in a pair of snug pj's. We work on his walk a bit before I read him a story and put him down.

He's out in a matter of minutes, giving me plenty of time to pack both his and my suitcases for our flight tomorrow.

As I pack, I fall into a meditative trance. By now I do this on autopilot. I no longer stress or give too much significance to my upcoming match, knowing I put in the work. I have enough seasons behind me to feel calm about it.

I used to get anxious many days prior to my matches and that took a toll on me mentally. Over the years, Rick and I worked on building up my confidence and figuring out a system that removes some of the unproductive stress from my training.

Boxing often is a mind game rather than a physical one so my strategy adapted. Training in my thirties is less about my physique and technique and more about maintaining it while strengthening my mental health. I think my mental clarity is what differentiates me from the other boxers. I throw a solid punch and have great footwork but being there mentally when we're on the umpteenth round is what matters.

I zip up the suitcases and carry them downstairs. 

"Can we watch Gladiator II when you're done?" Maisy calls from the living room.

I stop under the archway leading into the space. "Did you pack your bags?" I quiz, hands on my hips.

"All packed and ready to go," she promises.

We're maybe one-fourth of a way into the film when she tells me offhandedly I'm the real-life version of Marcus Acacius but younger, and since she spends all one hundred and fifty-six minutes of the movie drooling over the Roman General I take it as a compliment.

I try my best to concentrate on the plot happening on-screen but it all feels domestic—cosying up on opposite ends of the couch and enjoying a movie together—almost too comforting. On second thought, this whole day felt too domestic, too family-day like.

The realization scares the shit out of me but as we let the credits roll, a part of me—a self-sabotaging part of me— secretly hopes our movie nights become a tradition.

.

.

.

When he gets in, he's exhausted. Next week, he has his first match of the season and I'm flying with him to Miami to look after Oliver.

He's less hurried to check on his son, now greeting me before he peeks his head into the nursery to make sure Oliver is still breathing. I take that as a sign that I've earned his trust around his son.

Over the span of the past week, I too have learnt to trust myself around Oliver. Though I must admit, he's making it easy by being a mellow fourteen-month-old. He makes me feel like I have a knack for kids. I was even debating taking him on a coffee date, but I wanted to ask his dad before I did so.

We spend our days working on broadening his vocabulary and on his balance. While he takes his naps, I tinker with my resume and send in a few job applications before losing all my willpower to exist. When that happens, I entertain myself by going through Pedro's book collection, flipping through the well-thumbed pages of his paperbacks.

I didn't anticipate that taking care of a fourteen-month-old would tire me out the way it does, but by Oliver's bedtime, I'm ready to hit the sack.

I wait until Pedro gets home with the baby monitor. We exchange a few words—I ask how his training was and he inquires how Oliver's and I's day went. Mainly our conversations revolve around his son.

Tonight, however, he shows more interest in getting to know me.

I'm lounging on the couch, scrolling on my phone when he walks through the front door. He texted me late afternoon, informing me that he had an emergency meeting with one of his sponsorship partners.

I hear him in the foyer, putting his shoes away and the soft thud of his duffle bag as he drops it. Instead of checking on his son, this time he goes in search of me. He strolls over to me, hands in his pockets.

My gaze rises over his tall body. On the bottom, he's wearing a pair of black pressed pants, and the material hugs his corded thighs. A faded green chenille button-down graces his upper body. The first three buttons are undone, displaying his pectorals. If I squint I make out the freckles dotting his tanned skin.

"Hi."

"Hi," he parrots, his rich, velvety voice is like a caress. "Is Oliver sleeping?"

I pass him the baby monitor. "Out like a log."

His eyes fill with overt fondness as he watches his son through the screen. "He didn't give you trouble?"

I shake my head. "He was easy, as always."

He sets the device on the coffee table. "You're really good with him. He likes you."

"I'm glad. I like him too. He's the sweetest." I busy my hands with redoing my bun. "And while I got you, I wanted to ask if it would be okay with you if I took him out on a little outing, like for a stroll around the neighbourhood or to the bookstore? Just to stimulate him."

His face brightens. "Yeah, sure. I bet he'd enjoy that." He makes his way into the kitchen. The first floor of his house is open plan so I can follow him with my eyes. "I have a stroller in the foyer's wardrobe. But if you don't want to push him around I have a sling you can use to carry him on your body. That's in the bottom drawer of his dresser."

"Cool, I'll test it out."

He begins to open cabinets, my cue to leave. I stand, starting for the stairs.

"Hey," he stops me, "You don't have to lock yourself up in your room once I get home, you know that right?"

I freeze on the bottom step. "I know. I just don't want to get in your hair."

He chuckles at that. "You're not getting in my hair." He bends to open the built-in wine cooler and grabs a bottle of red. "Now, I don't normally encourage alcoholism," he starts, rummaging through his cupboards. "But would you want a glass of red?" He must see hesitation in my eyes because he adds, "You've been taking care of my boy for a week now and I don't even know what's your favourite colour." He flashes one of his debonair smiles and the cannibalistic butterflies in my stomach start flapping their wings. "Soo... can I get you to tell me about yourself over a bottle of wine?"

I feel myself preen under his soft gaze. "Fine, but you're not going to get me talking with the most dreaded job interview question." I retake my seat on the couch.

He laughs, pours us a glass each. "Fair point. A little too unoriginal." He carries our glasses to the couch where he plops down next to me. "You lost your mom, right? Rick hinted at it a couple of times," he asks, handing me my glass.

"Yeah, when I was seventeen. She had a heart attack."

"What was she like?"

I let out a slow breath. "Fun... and too kind for this world. She was my best friend in a way. She worked as a nurse, met my dad in the ER, but you probably know that already," I tell him. The memories of my mom bring a fond smile to my face. "What's your family like?"

He grins and puffs air from his cheeks. "Let's see. I'm one out of thirty-four cousins. I was nine months old when we left Chile to seek political asylum."

"Political asylum?" I frown, taking a sip of my wine.

"Yeah. My parents were liberal socialists and they had family members very involved with the opposition movement against the military regime at the time. So we fled to Denmark, spent a bit of time there and then we settled in San Antonio for a bit before moving to Orange County."

"And now you're a New Yorker. That's a lot of moving," I observe. "I've only ever lived in New York besides my college years. And what about your parents?"

"My mom died too, actually. She passed away in my early twenties, when my boxing career was taking off. That was a fucking hard time for me." He looks away briefly before our gazes lash together once more. "She was sort of the love of my life. I use her maiden name, Pascal, as my stage name."

He relives these intimate memories for me; I see it in his eyes. Him revealing such personal details of himself twists something in me I can't identify. I just know it holds significance.

"She must've been wonderful," I offer.

"She really was." He takes a sip of his wine. "Do you have any siblings?"

I shake my head. "Only child."

We continue to swap stories from our childhood. He tells me about his siblings and how he found boxing. I confess how I didn't have that romanticized college experience and how lost I feel now that I graduated.

Then he starts asking me questions and, while I talk, he sits, unmoving, and listens to my answers.

We get sucked into the conversation and as we do, we both relax into the couch. I curl my legs underneath me and he props one leg on the edge of the couch so he can turn towards me. He leans his side against the back of it, his head propped up by his hand as he studies me.

He asks if I have a boyfriend. I tell him I don't. He doesn't react, his face unreadable.

"On the topic of love," I take a sip before continuing, "I've always had this silly, romantic notion of falling in love organically—like meeting someone on the subway or in a coffee shop," I divulge, surprising myself with my admission. "But the chances of that are growing slimmer by the day. God, twenty-one is a harrowing age," I mumble, staring into my glass ruefully.

Pedro takes a slow, thoughtful sip of his wine. "I think that thought is sort of beautiful. And it's definitely not silly."

A little smile tugs at the corners of my lips. "I appreciate you saying that, but that's not how the dating pool works. And I hate going out and clubbing, so I don't foresee myself a bright future in the love department." I let out a sigh. "I'm aware I should put myself out there, but a part of me is like, if it doesn't happen naturally, I'm not sure I want it."

"Which part? The meet-cute or the falling in love?" He tops up our glasses.

"I guess I want us to meet without it feeling forced, if that makes sense. Like, I don't want to chase love, I want it to find me."

His facial expression softens and something warm floods his eyes, making them gleam. Our gazes slot together like puzzle pieces and I'm forever hypnotized.

This doesn't feel forced, my heart screams at me.

He doesn't seem to notice my silence and goes on talking.

For a moment my brain goes blank and I have to ask him to repeat himself. He chuckles at me and the deep, mellifluous sound rolls through me. My whole body buzzes.

As I continue to overshare, he grants me his undivided attention. His focus is like he's shining a light in my eyes. I feel seen.

He gets me talking, and I'm rarely the talker. With most people, I'm the listener, the shoulder to lean on. Alongside the very few—nowadays my dad and grandma—he's able to create a space where I can unburden myself. He doesn't judge when I reveal that I don't have many, if any friends—the closest connection to friendship I have is with Lindsey, my roommate from college, but I wouldn't categorize the two of us as anything above friendly acquaintances. I leave out the part that even though I'm turning twenty-two in a few months, I'm yet to have a boyfriend. Hell, I haven't even been kissed before.

Up until recently, my lack of experience in love and relationships didn't bother me that much. But now that I've graduated, the empty cavern I've masterfully ignored all my college years feels more substantial. Now I just feel embarrassed for myself.

All while staying unjudgemental, Pedro is asking the best follow-up questions and as our conversation reaches a natural conclusion, I'm left as if I just had a vulnerable but productive therapy session.

He's now telling me about a road trip he went on a few years ago, and I try to listen, I do, but his bulging biceps captivate my attention. They're like suspension cables. Every time he makes the tiniest of moment, the muscles in his arm ripple. I must be seriously touch-starved because I want to reach out and wrap my fingers around his biceps, which my fingers probably couldn't encircle.

His other hand that's not supporting his head holds his glass, balancing it on his thigh. I've never in my life been this severely mesmerized by thighs.

I hum a few times and say "That's so cool" to show that I'm listening before my stare leaves his face and dips to his hand once again.

His forefinger is tracing the lip of the wine glass. The longer I stare, the sexier his hand becomes. He has a little doodle tattoo between his thumb and forefinger and I find myself wanting to sink my teeth into the flesh.

This is so inappropriate, I scold myself. I really shouldn't be mapping his body.

I try my best to tidy up my head but the two glasses I drowned have made me loose and floaty.

"You alright there?" he probes, tilting his head to the side. My cheeks crimson. He must've clocked I was drooling over him. The corner of his beautiful, moustache-topped mouth lifts in an amused smirk.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm great," I cover up and a laugh slips me.

I clumsily place my now empty glass down and he reaches out to steady me by the elbow. My breathing turns shallow and rushed with the knowledge of his proximity.

"What is it?" he presses, chuckling lightly, clearly entertained by my tipsiness.

I groan, hiding my flushed face in my hands, cursing myself and the wine for making me more candid than I intended to be. "Nothing," I hiccup.

"Now you've got to tell me," he urges, cupping one of my elbows in his massive palm.

His touch is warm, his callouses scrap my skin. It feels like a parade of fire ants are crawling out of the area he's touching into every direction.

I move my hand from my face, dropping it onto my lap as his fingers trail up my forearm, which he squeezes lightly before letting go.

"It's stupid really," I mumble.

"Come on, you can tell me," he assures me, his eyes crinkling with a smile.

I shake my head at myself. "It's just that—oh my God, I can't believe I'm saying this—, it's just that you have nice hands and arms, okay?"

His cheeks blush visibly at my compliment, but he immediately turns it into a joke. "These?" He pulls back the sleeve of his t-shirt and flexes his bicep.

"Yeah," I admit sheepishly, letting out a nervous laugh.

"Can touch them if you want," he teases in a low murmur, a crooked smile spreading across his perfectly smooth lips.

"No, Pedro, I shouldn't have said what I said," I stammer coyly.

"Alright, alright," he drops it and fixes his sleeve. "Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

I swallow, whising away the redness colouring my face. Silence lapses for a beat and I notice the tops of his ears have turned red.

He leans over to grab the bottle of wine. "More?"

I shake my head. "I'd rather not further embarrass myself."

His smile fading, he chugs the rest of his wine and stands up. He gathers our glasses and the bottle, carrying them over to the sink where he rinses them. "I should get some sleep," he says with a sigh.

A few days later, I come across a social researcher job at an NGO.

I almost text Pedro, but something holds me back. It seems too good to be true. There will probably be dozens of applications, and there's no point in getting my hopes up before I've even secured an interview.

Still, I email them my cover letter and résumé, and check my email obsessively for the rest of the day.

As for the other areas of my adult life, I finally work up the courage to make an appointment for a routine check-up at gynaecologist. I have never gone to the gynaecologist, so as for a lot of things life experience related, I feel ashamed for putting it off for this long.

I mark down the day and time for the appointment in my phone calendar and pretend to forget about it.

×××

When the actual day of my gynaecologist appointment comes, I’m a ball of nerves.

I hide the better part of the time I have before I have to leave in my room.

I’m being overdramatic, I know.

“It’s just an appointment,” I remind myself, “A routine check-up. They do it every day. I’m just one of the hundreds of women at their clinic.”

I shake out my limbs to rid myself of the nervous jitters.

My hands are shaking. This is not normal; having a doctor’s appointment affect my day and mood so severely.

I can’t rationalize why the mere thought of going to my gynaecologist appointment is making it hard to breathe. Though it certainly has something to do with the fact that this is going to be my first time getting an examination like that. Where I have to strip naked, or at least from the waist down.

A shudder wracks my body and I bolt downstairs, into the living space, where I find Pedro on his hands and knees with Oliver on his back, riding him like a pony.

Pedro makes a neiging sound and Oliver lets out the sweetest peal of laughter.

It is the kind of moment that sticks in your mind like glue, a core memory of an innocent child without an ounce of stress or worry on his shoulders. He’s free. He’s living. He’s happy. And Pedro is the reason.

My heart pinches.

The image before me, Pedro’s portrayed tenderness fills me with something so warm and safe that I find the courage to go seek him out.

He must see something in my expression, because he helps Oliver off his back and sits criss-crossed.

He doesn’t say anything as I walk towards them, simply leans back on his palms, taking me in.

I plop down onto the floorboards and pull my knees to my chest.

He frowns almost immediately. He squints into my face before he asks, “What’s bothering you?”

His tone is serene, not accusatory in the least, but it still surprises me that he notices so effortlessly.

I look down at my hands, slightly embarrassed by what I’m about to expose. I’m pretty certain that it isn’t an usual preoccupation. I can’t imagine any of the women in Pedro’s life has come to him with anything like this before me.

Really, it’s just an appointment at the clinic. I understand the necessity of it. And I’m aware that I should be grateful for having access to health care. Still, it doesn’t make the concept of it any more appealing.

I clear my throat, raising my eyes to his. Worry is laced into his expression.

“I’m honestly really not looking forward to today’s appointment.” It comes out rushed, and I avert my gaze after the last word has been said.

I checked in with him about the date and Pedro has cleared his afternoon to look after his son so I could go.

He studies me for a moment before responding. “What about it is getting you so wound up?”

I shrug. I suppose he knows what it entails, though I’m not sure myself. I’m still not sexually active per se, so do they examine me the way they would someone who is?

“I, uh—I don’t like the idea of letting people see me down there,” I say past the lump clogging my throat. “And touching me.”

The words are honest and vulnerable in a way that hurts to say them.

His entire face shifts into a softness that feels undeserved, and his expression morphs with understanding.

“I know it isn’t the most desirable,” he starts.

“No, it really isn’t. I’m sort of afraid.”

He reaches over and covers my trembling hands with his own. “What about it scares you? Being naked?”

Calmness spreads through my body starting from where his hand rests on mine.

“I don’t know. Partly, I guess.”

“Are you seeing a woman or a man doctor?”

“It’s a woman, so there’s that,” I mumble dryly. It’s not exactly a consolation.

The floorboards creak as he slides closer to me, his son playing contently a few feet away.

“Why is womanhood so awkward and uncomfortable sometimes?” I ask to no one in particular, on the verge of tears.

“I’m not saying pelvic exams are a pleasant feeling, but they aren’t awkward. They’re normal, and I don’t think it’ll take a long time.” When I don’t react, Pedro gives me a sympathetic smile and offers, “Nothing bad will happen. I’m sure the doctor will be gentle, and will stop if anything gets overwhelming for you.”

I nod my head, dropping my gaze to our intertwined hands in my lap.

“I’ll go with you, if you want me to,” he tells me then and he sounds so definitive that I feel a small fraction of my fear slip away.

The idea of having him wait with me before the appointment, and to have him waiting for me once it’s over, it soothes me. “Yeah, I think I’d like that,” I say in a small voice.

He nods. “Okay, I’ll go with you then,” he replies in a heartbeat.

A part of me thinks it’s pathetic; needing his comfort in this way. And yet, he looks so glad to be able to give it, that it stings less.

“But we have to take Oliver with us,” he adds, elbowing my side jokingly. “His nanny asked for the day off, she has a doctor’s appointment apparently.”

A laugh slips me for the first time today and even for a tiny bit, I feel better about the examination.

×××

The emotional respite is short-lived because as soon as we’re pulling out from his underground garage, all of Pedro’s consolations lose their effect. He puts on music on the drive over, but I’m too checked out. Sensing my increasing unease, he rests a warm, oversized palm on my knee and starts rubbing his thumb in circles.

“You’ll be in and out in a blink of an eye,” he assures me in a quiet, honeyed voice.

I swallow, my gaze dropping to where he’s touching me. If I were in another headspace, I’d find the imaginary extremely hot. Right now my mind is far too clouded to care. I just focus on the predictable circles his thumb is drawing on my kneecap.

In the tastefully decorated waiting room, we sit side-by-side wordlessly, and his hand finds my knee once again. Oliver is busy flipping through a picture book Pedro brought along.

Around us, several women with baby bumps in different sizes wait as well. A few men, presumably their boyfriends or husbands, keep them company. I faintly wonder if they see Pedro and I as a couple.

The dreadful moment comes, my name is called.

I look at Pedro, for what exactly I do not know. Reassurance? Consolation? Probably both.

I wish I wouldn’t need his assistance but I’m grateful that he seems happy to give it.

With just a simple look—eyes warm and bottomless—it’s as if he’s promising everything will be okay. I nod at him, once, twice, steel myself and follow after the nurse.

Once in the examination room, everything happens in a blur. The nurse takes my blood pressure and my weight, and asks me some intake questions. Then I’m left to change into a paper gown.

I fold my underwear inside the sundress I came in, and hop onto the leathered bench, my feet dangling off the edge. I pretend I don’t see the stir-ups.

My doctor is entering the room in minutes time. She introduces herself but my brain glosses over her name. She goes over the intake questions with me once again, asks about my cycle in general, whether I’m sexually active or not. Avoiding her eyes, I tell her that I’m yet to have sex. She notes it down, but doesn’t make any comment.

Contrary to my expectation, the doctor doesn’t rush things. She explains what the examination will detail using a diagram to illustrate each step, even going as far as showing me what instruments she’ll use. She tells me she’ll do a pelvic exam using just her fingers and then the smear test.

The demonstration clears up some of my worries, and I feel myself loosen just a bit.

The next moment though, I’m asked to recline.

My ears start to ring.

She instructs me to bend my knees and put my feet together so my legs are in a butterfly position. I’m forever indebted to her for not using the stir-ups.

She puts on surgical gloves and I notice myself tensing up, which I know is not ideal.

She rolls over on her chair, lifting my gown. Setting my jaw, I bore into the ceiling, my hands fidgeting on my stomach as I brace myself.

The whole examination happens so fast. It’s relatively painless, more uncomfortable than anything, though it has to be said, it’s—even if remotely—awkward.

Afterwards, she gives me a wipe to clean myself and says she’ll call with the results of the smear test but otherwise I’m healthy, before exiting the room.

I re-dress in a daze, the aftershocks of my nerves jitters running through my body. To calm myself, I repeat positive affirmations in my head. Anything to gaslight myself that it was a totally normal and not at all awkward situation.

Having Pedro waiting for me outside makes the whole ordeal a hundred times more bearable. As I step into the waiting room, fragile and vulnerable, he springs to his feet at my sight, picks up Oliver and leads me outside by my hand.

He straps Oliver in then turns to me with eyes so tender it makes me crack. My reaction is uncalled for, but something about his willingness to take care of me throws me. I need him, and he's here, I realize. Fully, not with caveats or stipulations.

My eyes well up and my shoulders cave in on me.

He pulls me in for a bear-hug then and murmurs into my hair, “You were so brave, my pretty girl.”

Hearing those few words strung together in a sentence does something irreversible to my brain chemistry.

A single teardrop escapes my waterline. He attentively wipes it away and kisses the top of my head.

Today, he’s broken our rules on many accounts, and I think I don’t want him to enforce them tomorrow.

He insists we get gelato from an authentic Italian restaurant, but when we get there I’m treated to a three course dinner and gelato.

Apparently while I was in for my examination, he called the owner of the restaurant to get us a table. And he didn’t just get us a table, he managed to get us a spot at the back, where it’s more private.

We enjoy a languid early dinner. The service is incredible, and the owner comes by to greet Pedro. They exchange pleasantries and I’m once again floored by how kind and charismatic he is.

Pedro sits opposite me and spoon-feeds his son while simultaneously listening to my musings on how and why I think obstetrics and gynaecology became a male-dominated field.

I get carried away and ramble on a little too passionately and a little too long about how I think the over-mediclaization of pregnancy and birth is a byproduct of modernization and technocracy and that because of it women, or at least a big portion of the female population is rubbed off expereincing what it truly means to be in sync with their bodies.

He mostly agrees with my argument, tries to understand those points I make that he’s initially not so sure about. We agree that how our healthcare system treats women in labour is more for the comfort of the attending doctor rather than the woman in labour.

After my detour, he opens up about single-dad life. He tells me about the less glamorous parts of newborn life, and he doesn’t spare the gory details. He recalls several occasions when Oliver puked on him. Then, he rehashes how Oliver peed all over the walls that one time while he was changing his diaper.

When our laughing settles, something switches. “So yeah, lots of debacles,” he mumbles, staring at the glass in his hands before taking a small sip. “No but honestly, it was rough, our first months together.” He falls silent, his jaw working like he is chewing on the words he isn’t sure how to say.

“I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, “It’s just—.“ When his eyes slide back up to meet mine, they are laced with sorrow, with a vulnerability that nearly makes me choke on the bite I half-swallowed. “You have no idea how hard this has all been for me.”

He doesn’t have to elaborate on what he means. It is written in every line of his face.

This man has been battling being a single father, on top of a high-performance athlete, all while flipping through a catalogue of sorry excuses for nannies who only added to his stress.

My bet is he is wondering how long I’d last, wondering how long he could count on me before he’d be back to square one.

“I’m sorry it’s been hard,” I offer quietly. “But… I hope I could make it a bit easier these past weeks.”

He gives a small smile. “Trust me, you have.”

We finish the rest of the meal in companionable silence, and it isn’t after we put our gelato orders in that I speak.

“Do you ever think about the moments you missed when he was a newborn?” I ask, setting my fork down. “Like his first smile, the newborn scrunch?”

He consults the tablecloth before answering.

“I think for me it’s the part I missed before he was here with us on earth,” he says, my knitted brows urging him on. “I didn’t get to experience the whole pregnancy thing. I think if I got a go at it, I’d be one of those awfully overprotective dad-to-bes.”

Imagining him doting on his heavily pregnant girlfriend/wife, buying all those unnecessary pregnancy products just so she has the option to use them, talking to his unborn child and sponging kisses against the spot where they kick their mother—it twists something in me that I can’t identify. Maybe disappointment, that I wouldn’t be the one to experience those things with him, possibly envy for the woman who might. Most likely a bit of both.

“I can kind of picture you that way. You seem that type of a man,” I mumble, my voice small and hesitant.