(Ethan's POV)
I recognize him before I understand why.
It isn't his face. Faces are unreliable, shifting things that can echo others by accident. It's his stance that stops me.
One foot slightly ahead of the other, shoulders angled like he's ready to move if the world turns. Alert, but not scared. A child who watches people the way adults watch exits.
That's how I used to stand.
The recognition hits with enough force to make me forget to breathe.
Lucas sits beside Amelia at a corner table, legs swinging, a glass of orange juice sweating beside him. He's drawing on a napkin with a dull pencil, circles inside other circles, pressing too hard until the lead snaps.
He frowns, silent, finds the sharpener in her bag, fixes it without a word. No complaint, no drama. Just quiet concentration.
Amelia rests her hand in his hair, smoothing it absently as she reads the menu. The touch is unconscious, practiced. Her fingers linger longer than necessary.
My pulse stumbles.
I tell myself to calm down. Children look like people all the time. Small details don't mean anything. Shared gestures, even habits—they're coincidences.
Still, my hands won't stay still.
When she notices me, her mouth tightens. "You didn't have to come," she says. Her tone is polite, but it carries something under it. "I know how busy you are."
"I wanted to."
The words come out softer than intended, nearly a confession. I don't explain that I couldn't stay away, that some old instinct pulled me here the way gravity pulls water downhill.
Lucas looks up. Not shy. Measuring.
"You're the tall man," he says.
Amelia's hand freezes halfway through his hair.
"Yes," I answer. "I guess I am."
He tilts his head, studying me the way you might study a reflection that doesn't quite behave. "You walk like you're thinking too much."
I blink, caught off guard.
"Lucas," Amelia murmurs, warning in her voice.
"What?" He shrugs, glancing between us. "He does."
A laugh escapes before I can stop it—quiet, surprised. "Is that a bad thing?"
He considers it seriously. "Not if you like being alone."
The comment lands harder than it should.
Amelia clears her throat. "Finish your juice, please."
Lucas obeys but keeps glancing at me over the rim of his glass. There's no malice in it, only curiosity—sharp, watchful curiosity that feels far too familiar.
"How old are you?" I ask.
"Seven," he says proudly. "Almost eight."
The air around us shifts. Seven.
My chest tightens, the math coming faster than I want it to.
Seven years since the night she walked away. Since the fight. Since everything stopped making sense.
I grip the edge of the table, grounding myself in the small details—the scrape of my coffee cup, the hum of the café, the smell of yeast and citrus and warmth.
"Do you like school?" I manage to ask.
He nods. "Math's easy. I like stories too. But not loud kids. They ruin it."
A smile pulls at my mouth. "I've never liked loud people either."
He grins, quick and uneven.
That grin nearly undoes me. I've seen it before. In mirrors. In photographs of a boy I used to be.
After lunch, Amelia insists on walking him home. I don't argue. I just fall into step beside them. The city is louder now—the hiss of buses, the chatter of street vendors, the metallic beat of traffic lights changing.
Lucas walks between us, swinging his backpack in small arcs, glancing up every so often as if checking that we haven't disappeared.
He reaches for Amelia's hand. She takes it without hesitation.
Something tightens in my chest again—something protective, something that feels like loss.
"Do you work with my mom?" he asks suddenly.
"Yes," I say. "On a project."
"She works a lot."
"So do I."
He frowns. "That makes people forget things."
"Like what?"
He meets my gaze. "Like people."
For a moment, the noise of the street fades. His voice sounds too old for him, too certain.
When we reach the apartment building, he waves, cheerful again, and runs ahead toward the door. The sound of his sneakers on the steps echoes for a long time before fading.
Amelia and I stand there in the quiet that follows.
"You didn't have to bring him," I say finally.
"I wasn't hiding him."
"No." My throat feels dry. "You weren't."
The space between us feels dense, charged.
"You see it," she says.
"I see similarities."
"That doesn't mean—"
"I know."
"But you're thinking it," she says.
"Yes."
Her shoulders drop slightly, as if she's been waiting for the admission. "I didn't want him to be treated like proof. Or property."
"I wouldn't",
"I know," she cuts in. "But power changes what people mean."
I look at her. "I've changed."
She studies me for a long moment, eyes clear and hard. "Have you?"
Her phone buzzes. She glances at it, frowning. "They want sworn testimony. Personal records."
"They're pushing."
"Yes," she says quietly. "And so are you."
There's no accusation in it, only truth.
When she turns to go, I catch her wrist—not hard, just enough to stop her. "If he's mine",
Her gaze snaps to mine. "Don't finish that sentence."
But I can't help it. "If he's mine, I want to know."
The silence that follows is almost unbearable.
"He's his own," she says at last, voice trembling in the smallest way. "He's not a claim. Not a consequence."
Then she pulls her hand free and leaves.
That night, I don't sleep.
I sit at the desk with an old photograph spread before me—me at eight, sitting on the front steps of my mother's house, knees scabbed, grin crooked. The resemblance is undeniable. The same tilt of the head. The same restless eyes.
My phone vibrates across the table.
Amelia: We need to talk. About him.
My stomach twists.
Outside, rain begins to fall in thin, steady lines. The sound fills the room, steady and relentless. I close my eyes, but every time I do, I see Lucas's face. His hand tightening around hers. His quiet observation: You walk like you're thinking too much.
He was right. I haven't stopped thinking since the moment I saw him.
I try to picture a version of the world where this isn't true. Where the math doesn't add up. Where coincidence explains everything. But the photograph in front of me keeps refusing to agree.
I reach for the picture, thumb brushing over the grain. My chest feels like it's collapsing in on itself.
If he's mine, then every decision I've made in the past seven years collapses under its own weight.
If he's mine, then every reason I had for staying away turns to smoke.
And if he's mine—if that small, watchful boy with my eyes and her steadiness belongs to us—then walking away isn't a choice I get to make again.
For the first time in years, the future doesn't look like ambition or redemption. It looks like a child sitting at a café table, pressing too hard on a pencil, trying not to break it.
It looks like responsibility I never earned but might still be able to learn.
I turn the photograph facedown and pick up the phone. My reflection stares back at me in the dark glass—older, harder, and more afraid than I've ever been.
When I finally type my reply, my hands shake.
Ethan: Tell me when and where.
I hit send.
And wait for whatever comes next.