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𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐘

“Happier, prettier, jealousy, jealousy. All I see is what I should be. I'm losing it, all I get's jealousy, jealousy.”

༘♡ ·˚꒰ nate jacobs 𝐱 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫꒱ ₊˚ˑ

➤ 𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙔, Life quietly reshapes a truth Nate never saw coming: Luca is no longer a shock, but a constant, and the “new normal” begins to settle into the bones of you and Nate’s dynamic. However, there’s something boiling deep inside of Cassie as the new normal becomes apparent.

➤ 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂, 𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅—𝐈𝐒𝐇. SEXUAL THEMES. A BIT OF STALKING AND OBSESSION

➤ 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝘿𝙎, 16.4k

➤ 𝘼𝙐𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙍’𝙎 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙀, here we are with the fic! it’s been a minute and again, thank you all for being patient. the semester is almost over — i will finally be able to breath and get these fics out!

𝙋𝙍𝙀𝙑𝙄𝙊𝙐𝙎 ➜ YOUR THOUGHTS

𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑵𝑻𝑯𝑺 that followed, Luca stopped feeling like a shock dropped into the middle of your life and started becoming something else entirely—something woven in, something expected, something that changed the rhythm of your days without asking permission and then, somehow, made the rhythm better.

At first, everything had felt delicate.

Every visit, every phone call, every drop-off or dinner had carried the weight of adjustment. There had been schedules to navigate, boundaries to respect, awkwardness to work through, and the constant quiet awareness that everyone was learning each other in real time. Nothing came naturally in the beginning—not because there wasn't care, but because there was so much care that nobody wanted to get it wrong.

But time did what time often does when people keep showing up for each other.

It softened the sharp edges.

Little by little, Luca's presence in your and Nate's life became the new normal.

Not a disruption.

Not a crisis.

Just... part of the week.

There were now extra sneakers by the door sometimes. Small juice boxes in the fridge next to protein shakes and meal-prep containers. Crayons in the coffee table drawer. One of Luca's little hoodies thrown over the back of your couch because he'd gotten warm and kicked it off before running back to whatever he and Nate had been doing. The tablet charger you and Nate swore you didn't need to buy but somehow always had plugged in now. Tiny traces of a child beginning to settle into your space—not overtaking it, just joining it.

And Nate threw himself into fatherhood with the same intensity he brought to everything he loved.

Only this was different from football, different from training, different from the rigid, perfection-driven way he used to approach life. With Luca, he was trying to learn how to be steady instead of spectacular. Present instead of polished. And because he was Nate, he made plans.

So many plans.

He had lists.

Literal lists.

Things he wanted to do with Luca. Places to take him. Small traditions to start. A sports museum downtown. The aquarium. Saturday morning pancakes at that diner with the sticky booths and the cartoon placemats. Throwing a football in the park. Movie nights with "age-appropriate but still cool" selections he researched way too seriously. Trips to the sports store that somehow always ended with Luca leaving with something he definitely didn't need but absolutely loved.

And in Nate's head, almost every one of those plans included you.

At first, that caught you off guard.

You had assumed—quietly, reasonably—that there would be a period where you stepped back. Not emotionally, not in support, but physically. You figured Nate and Luca needed room to build something that belonged to just them. Father and son. Their own language. Their own rhythm. Their own moments that didn't have to pass through you first.

So the first few times Nate naturally folded you into the plan, you pushed back.

Not harshly. Just enough.

"Babe," you'd said one night while the two of you stood in the kitchen packing a little backpack for Luca's Saturday visit, "you know you don't need me there for everything, right?"

Nate had barely looked up from where he was shoving wipes, snacks, and a tiny water bottle into the front zipper pocket. "Didn't say I needed you," he'd muttered.

You raised a brow. "That sounded like a lie."

He'd glanced over then, caught, but not ashamed of it. "Fine," he'd said, zipping the bag shut. "I want you there. Better?"

And that had been the thing.

It wasn't dependence. It wasn't fear. It wasn't Nate trying to offload responsibility or make you do the emotional labor of the situation for him.

He just... wanted you there.

Because you were part of his life, and Luca was now part of his life, and in Nate's mind, the two things weren't supposed to exist in separate lanes unless they absolutely had to.

At first, you worried about interfering.

You worried you'd become a buffer without meaning to—a soft place Nate leaned on too much while he got used to Luca, or a distraction that kept the two of them from figuring each other out naturally. You worried that if you were always in the room, always beside them, then maybe Nate would unconsciously let you carry some of the social ease while he stayed inside his own uncertainty.

And more than that—you worried about Luca.

About whether he'd feel like you were some weird third presence inserted into moments that were supposed to belong to him and his father. Whether he'd start performing for you too, splitting his attention, measuring his reactions against yours. Whether your presence would make it harder for him to simply be a kid around Nate.

So you tried to step lightly.

When Nate invited you to come to the park with them, you did—but you made a point of lingering back sometimes, sitting on the bench while they kicked a soccer ball around until Luca inevitably shouted for you to join.

When Nate planned breakfast outings, you came—but let the two of them order first, settle into their banter, claim their little inside jokes before you slid into the conversation.

When they sat on the living room floor building some ridiculous race track or a half-crooked Lego set, you'd sometimes stay on the couch with your laptop, nearby but not inserted, letting their voices fill the apartment while you pretended not to be listening to every second.

And what surprised you most was this:

Neither of them minded.

Not Nate.

Not Luca.

If anything, Luca started expecting you.

Not in a clingy way. Not like he couldn't be with Nate without you. But in the simple, child-honest way of someone who had already decided you belonged in the picture. He'd show up at the apartment and ask, "Is Y/N here?" before he even took off his shoes. He'd tug on your sleeve to show you a drawing after showing Nate. He'd naturally wedge himself between you both on the couch like it was the most obvious seating arrangement in the world.

And Nate?

Nate looked more at ease when you were around in the beginning, though he probably would've denied it if pressed. Not because you spoke for him or handled anything for him, but because you steadied the atmosphere just by being in it. If conversation stalled, you could nudge it along. If Nate got too intense about teaching Luca something, one look from you usually brought him back down to earth. If the moment got too emotionally loaded, your dry humor or quiet presence kept it from tipping into something too heavy for a six-year-old to carry.

You became, without trying to, part of the architecture of those early months.

Not the center.

Not the bridge.

Just one of the beams holding the space up while Nate and Luca built something real between them.

Still, you kept checking yourself.

You reminded yourself constantly that your job wasn't to stand between them and translate fatherhood into something easier. It was to love Nate, welcome Luca, and know when to step back.

So you got intentional about it.

Sometimes, when Nate started to ask, "You wanna come with us?" before even thinking, you'd smile and say, "Nope. This one's yours."

He'd frown every single time.

"What if he wants you there?"

"Then he can survive missing me for two hours," you'd reply.

And more often than not, Luca did just fine.

Because the more time passed, the less Nate needed training wheels—not that you were training wheels, but that was how your mind framed the transition. He stopped overthinking every conversation. He stopped looking at you after every answer like he needed confirmation that he was doing okay. He got better at meeting Luca where he was instead of trying to fast-forward to some idealized version of father-son closeness.

He learned Luca's rhythms.

How he got quiet when he was tired. How he got stubborn when he was embarrassed. How he loved being taught things but hated feeling talked down to. How he'd ask random, deeply serious questions right in the middle of nonsense—like whether sharks got lonely or whether Nate ever cried when he was little.

And Nate, to his credit, answered.

Not always perfectly. Sometimes awkwardly. Sometimes with a little too much honesty that made you raise your brows from across the room. But he answered.

And that was what mattered.

Over time, the dynamic settled into something that felt healthy. Balanced. Earned.

There were outings where the three of you moved like a little unit—Luca holding one of your hands and one of Nate's while crossing a parking lot, Nate carrying the snacks, you carrying the sunscreen, everyone bickering lightly about where to eat after.

And there were outings where you stayed home on purpose.

Those days, Nate would leave with Luca in the morning, backpack in one hand and his son's chatter buzzing beside him, and the apartment would go quiet in a way that felt strange but right. You'd make coffee, straighten up, maybe train or answer emails, and when they came back a few hours later, the door would burst open with Luca halfway through a story and Nate looking tired but proud in that soft, secretive way he always did after a good day with him.

Those were your favorite returns.

Because you could always tell the difference.

The difference between days when they'd had fun and days when they'd connected.

And more and more often, it was both.

You watched Nate become gentler in these months—not weaker, not softer in the way people used the word like an insult, but more precise with his tenderness. More willing to kneel down and listen. More likely to laugh things off instead of turning rigid. More aware that Luca didn't need perfection from him. Just consistency.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, you realized something too:

This new chapter didn't feel like you losing Nate to fatherhood.

It felt like watching the life you'd built together expand.

Messy, yes. Unexpected, absolutely. Sometimes inconvenient, emotional, and overwhelming.

But real.

There were still moments where you caught yourself standing in the kitchen watching Nate help Luca wash his hands after painting, or hearing the two of them argue in the living room over which superhero would win in a fight, and thought:

This is ours now.

Not in a possessive way.

In a grateful one.

And even though you never stopped being intentional about giving them space—never stopped reminding yourself that they deserved moments that belonged only to them—you also stopped pretending you were outside the story.

You weren't a buffer.

You weren't a distraction.

You weren't just some supportive shadow lingering at the edge of father-son bonding time.

You were part of the life Nate was building with Luca.

And as much as you made room for the two of them to have something separate and sacred, you also accepted a truth that became harder to deny with every passing week.

Luca wasn't just becoming part of Nate's life.

He was becoming part of yours too.

𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑵𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻, the apartment felt quieter than usual.

Not empty—never empty—but quieter in that specific way it always did after Luca left. Like the walls themselves noticed the difference. The living room, which had been full of cartoons, little footsteps, the crinkle of snack wrappers, and Luca's voice asking a hundred questions in a row, had settled back into stillness. One of his small socks had been left near the couch until you picked it up and tossed it into the laundry. His cup was still in the sink. A half-finished drawing sat on the coffee table, forgotten in the rush of Cassie's pickup.

It was always like this after he left.

A little silence.

A little softness.

A little ache.

You and Nate had gotten ready for bed without much talking, both of you moving through the apartment in that worn-in rhythm of shared domesticity. Teeth brushed side by side. Lights turned off one by one. The bedroom lamp left on low until one of you climbed into bed and reached back to switch it off.

Now the room was dim except for the moonlight filtering through the curtains and the faint glow from the city beyond the windows. The faded sheets were cool where they touched your legs, warm where Nate's body heat had already spread through the mattress.

He was behind you, stretched along your back like he was trying to keep you folded into him.

One arm was draped low across your waist, heavy and secure. The other rested higher, his hand splayed against your stomach, fingers flexing every now and then in absent thought. Your back was pressed against his chest, and every slow breath he took brushed warm air over the back of your neck.

It was one of his favorite ways to hold you when his mind was busy.

Protective. Quiet. Possessive in the gentlest way.

You could feel that he wasn't asleep yet. His body was too alert under the stillness, his thumb tracing lazy patterns just beneath the hem of your shirt. There was thought in the way he held you—something turning over and over in his head until he finally decided to say it out loud.

"Nah," you murmured sleepily, not fully opening your eyes. "You're thinking too loud."

You felt his chest move with a soft huff of a laugh.

"That's not a thing," he said, voice low and rough with the hour.

"It is when you live with someone long enough," you replied. "Your silence has different settings."

That got another quiet laugh out of him, softer this time, his mouth brushing lightly against the back of your shoulder.

For a second, he didn't say anything else. He just pulled you a little closer, tightening his arm around your middle until your body settled more completely against his.

Then, finally:

"I think we should move."

That made your eyes open.

Not fully at first—just enough to stare into the dark bedroom in front of you while your brain caught up with the sentence. You shifted slightly in his hold, not enough to leave it, just enough to show him you were awake now.

"Move?" you repeated, voice still thick with sleep. "Like... eventually? Or are you spiraling on Zillow again?"

His hand slid slowly over your stomach, settling there. "Not spiraling," he muttered. "Thinking."

You hummed. "That's usually worse."

He ignored that.

"I'm serious," Nate said, quieter now, but there was purpose in it. "I've been thinking about it for a while, actually. This place..." He trailed off for a beat, his fingers pressing lightly into your side. "It's ours. I love it. But it's getting tight."

You knew what he meant immediately.

The apartment had once been perfect for the two of you. Cozy in a way that felt romantic instead of cramped. Exposed brick, warm light through the big windows, the couch you'd both nearly broken carrying up four flights of stairs, the bed you still swore was too small when Nate got clingy in the middle of the night.

It had been the first place that was truly yours together.

But now there were more moving parts.

A child-sized backpack by the door on some weekends. Toys occasionally tucked under the coffee table. A little body asleep on your couch after too much swimming or too much sugar. Plans being built not just for tomorrow, but for years.

You stayed quiet, letting him keep going.

Nate's mouth found the back of your neck, pressing a soft, absent kiss there before he spoke again.

"I want Luca to have his own room," he said.

That did something immediate to your chest.

You felt yourself soften instinctively in his arms, your head tipping back just slightly against his shoulder so you could hear him better.

"Not just some drawer for his stuff or him sleeping on the couch or in the guest room when he's over," Nate continued. "An actual room. His room. Somewhere he can leave things and come back to them. Somewhere he doesn't have to feel like a visitor."

The way he said it—so matter-of-fact and yet so full of feeling—made your throat tighten.

Because that was exactly the kind of thing Nate thought about now. Not flashy gestures. Not abstract fatherhood ideas. Practical, rooted things. Belonging. Stability. Space.

He shifted behind you, propping himself up slightly on one elbow so he could lean over you a little more.

"I want a house," he said into the quiet. "A real one. With space. A backyard. Maybe a pool." A pause. Then, with a note of consideration that made you smile in spite of yourself: "Or a trampoline."

You laughed softly, the sound muffled by the pillow.

"A trampoline?"

"Why are you acting like that's crazy?" he asked, offended in the most half-hearted way.

"Because you're thirty seconds away from talking about a golden retriever and a swing set."

"Don't start," he muttered. "You know damn well I'd get both."

That made you laugh again, more fully this time. You rolled slightly onto your back so you could look at him, and he let you, one arm still looped around you while the other braced his weight above you.

In the low light, his face looked softer than it ever did in daylight. No game-day sharpness. No public mask. Just Nate—hair messy from bed, lashes low, mouth relaxed, eyes fixed on you with that thoughtful intensity he only ever let you see up close.

He looked serious.

Not impulsive. Not caught up in some passing fantasy. Serious.

"And," he added, voice quieter again, "maybe a room for our stuff too."

You raised a brow. "Our stuff?"

His mouth twitched. "You know what I mean."

You did.

Your trophies. His trophies. Medals. Frames. Jerseys. Photos. The collection of proof that the two of you had built careers and lives worth remembering. The apartment had little traces of all of it—some on shelves, some in closets, some in boxes because there simply wasn't room.

"A trophy room?" you asked, amused.

He shrugged, but there was no embarrassment in it. "Why not?"

"Because that sounds obnoxious."

"It sounds earned," he corrected.

You studied him for a long moment, then let your eyes drift away for a second, into the dark room, into the idea of it.

A house.

Luca's own room.

A backyard. Space. Noise. Light. Somewhere that could hold more than the two of you curled into each other after long days. Somewhere that could hold a child's life too.

And the more you pictured it, the less it felt impossible.

Actually... you didn't hate the idea at all.

Not even a little.

In fact, warmth spread through you so quickly it surprised you.

"You know," you said slowly, the smile creeping into your voice before it fully made it to your face, "Luca having his own room would be really nice."

Nate's expression shifted immediately at the way you said it—like the softness in your tone reached him before the words did.

"Yeah?" he asked, quieter now.

You nodded, already warming to it.

"Yeah," you said. "He'd love that. We could actually let him decorate it too. Not just throw some neutral furniture in there and call it a day." Your eyes lit a little more as you thought it through. "He'd probably want something chaotic. Dinosaurs one week, superheroes the next, race cars after that."

Nate's mouth curved slowly, eyes locked on your face now instead of the ceiling or the dark window or whatever future he'd been imagining before.

You kept going, because now that the idea had settled into you, you could see it.

"No, wait," you said, shifting fully onto your back so your face was open to his. "We'd let him choose. Like actually choose. Bedding, lamp, wall color if it's not ugly enough to cause a fight." You smiled wider, more awake now than you'd been five minutes ago. "And he'd absolutely want some ridiculous glow-in-the-dark something on the ceiling."

Nate just watched you.

You could feel it—that particular kind of silence from him, the one that meant he wasn't zoning out, he was soaking you in.

"We could get one of those little bookshelves," you added, already picturing it. "And a bin for his drawings. Maybe a corkboard or magnetic wall for all the weird little things he's proud of. His soccer stuff. His animals. He'd make a mess of it in like three days, but it'd be his

The idea clearly delighted you more the longer you talked, and Nate's expression changed in response. Something deep and warm moved across his face—something so tender it almost hurt to look at too long.

He loved this.

Not just the idea of the house.

The sound of you talking about Luca like that.

With ease. With affection. With genuine excitement.

Like this life with Nate had expanded and instead of resisting it, you had opened up and made room.

His gaze dropped to your mouth when you smiled, then lifted back to your eyes. He looked a little wrecked by how fond he felt.

"You're cute," he murmured.

You blinked. "For... interior design?"

"For talking about him like that," Nate said.

Your expression softened.

He shifted then, moving over you more fully, one hand planting beside your head while the other slid over your waist beneath your shirt. His body settled between your legs without fully pinning you, his weight familiar and welcome, the mattress dipping around you both.

"You get all excited when you talk about giving him things," he said, voice lower now, threaded with something warm and intimate. "Like you're already planning it in your head."

You smiled, a little sheepish now that he'd caught it so easily. "Maybe I am."

"Yeah," he whispered. "I know."

And then his mouth was on your neck.

Not hurried. Not rough. Just slow, affectionate kisses pressed into the warm skin beneath your jaw, each one lingering like he was thanking you in a language made entirely of touch. His hand spread over your side, thumb stroking once, twice, his breathing deeper now against you.

You tipped your head back automatically, giving him more room, one hand sliding up into his hair.

"Nate," you murmured, half warning, half invitation.

He hummed against your skin, then kissed higher—along the line of your throat, just below your ear, then back down again in a path that made your body loosen under him.

"I like hearing you talk about him," he admitted quietly between kisses. "About our life like that."

Our life.

The words landed somewhere deep.

His mouth found yours next, brushing once, twice—soft, testing, then fuller when you tilted up to meet him. The kiss wasn't desperate. It was warm and deep and full of the kind of intimacy that came from years of knowing exactly how the other one softened.

You kissed him back slowly, your fingers in his hair, your other hand sliding over his shoulder and down his back.

When he pulled away just enough to breathe, his forehead brushed yours.

"You really don't hate the idea?" he asked again, like he needed to hear it one more time.

You smiled up at him, your lips still close enough to graze his when you spoke.

"No," you said softly. "I really don't."

That earned you another kiss—longer this time, his mouth curving faintly against yours.

Then he dipped back to your neck, pressing another trail of kisses there while his hand drifted lower over your side, slow and familiar, the conversation no longer just about square footage and room colors.

Because that was the thing about you and Nate.

Even talks about the future—about mortgages and backyards and where Luca's bed might go—somehow ended with his mouth on your skin and your heart beating faster for reasons that had nothing to do with real estate.

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑫𝑰𝑼𝑴 was alive in a way only professional football stadiums could be—bright, loud, and pulsing with the kind of energy that settled into your bones whether you wanted it to or not.

From the moment you all stepped out into the sea of jerseys, foam fingers, and rushing fans, the air had felt electric. Music boomed from speakers overhead, bass rattling through the concrete concourse. The scent of stadium food drifted everywhere—hot dogs, popcorn, fried everything, buttery pretzels, spilled beer. Huge screens flashed player stats and hype videos, and every few seconds another roar swelled up from somewhere in the stands as people found their seats, recognized players warming up on the field, or simply got caught in the fever of game day.

You walked beside Luca as the group made its way to the seats, his smaller hand occasionally brushing yours when the crowd got too tight. He wore a miniature version of Nate's jersey—slightly oversized, sleeves bunching at his wrists, the number on the front almost too big for his chest. Marsha had nearly cried when she saw him in it before they left the house.

Now, seated high enough to see the whole field but close enough to feel the impact of the crowd, all of you settled into a strange, evolving version of family.

Cassie sat with Luca on one side and you on the other, while Marsha and her husband occupied the seats nearby, already deep in the kind of game-day rituals that came from years of watching Nate play. Marsha clutched her bag and kept glancing down at the field like she could spot him even among the chaos of helmets and warm-up drills. Her husband sat broader and quieter, offering the occasional dry observation but otherwise keeping his eyes locked on the turf.

And Luca—

Luca was beside himself.

His legs kicked restlessly against the edge of the seat, sneakers thudding lightly as he leaned forward every few seconds to look at the field, then back at one of you, then back at the field again.

"Which one is he?" he asked for what had to be the sixth time, though his voice still held the same eager urgency as the first.

You smiled, patient. "The one warming up near the thirty," you said, pointing. "See? White sleeves under the jersey."

Luca squinted, one hand shielding his eyes from the glare bouncing off the field. "That one?"

"No, babe," Cassie corrected gently. "Two over."

"That's him," you added, your finger tracing the movement until Luca locked onto Nate's familiar frame.

The second he did, his face lit up.

"Oh!" he shouted, sitting up straighter. "I see him! I see him!"

Marsha laughed softly, hand coming to rest over her heart. "There he is," she said, though whether she was talking to Luca or herself was anyone's guess.

When Nate looked up during warm-ups and found your section, the shift in him was subtle but impossible to miss if you knew him. His posture loosened just a fraction. He lifted a hand—not dramatic, just enough—and Luca immediately waved both arms like he was flagging down a plane.

"Dad!" Luca yelled, even though there was no way Nate could hear him over the crowd.

Still, Nate smiled.

It was quick, but it was there.

And just like that, the whole section around you seemed to brighten.

When the game started, everything intensified.

The crowd rose and fell like a living thing. Every hit on the field sent a collective noise rolling through the stadium. The giant screens flashed replays, stats, close-ups of players. The announcer's voice boomed overhead, rattling off names and yardage while the band and music stingers punched through every pause.

You all got pulled into it.

Marsha cheered with the full-body investment of a football mother who'd been doing this since Friday night lights. Her husband leaned forward on the big plays, muttering things under his breath like he was still somehow coaching from the stands. Cassie clapped and shouted Nate's name at key moments, half-focused on the field and half on Luca's reactions.

And Luca?

Luca was all in.

Every time Nate took the field, his whole body angled toward the action, hands gripping the edge of his seat, eyes wide and bright with amazement. He asked questions nonstop—what's a first down, why did the whistle blow, did Dad throw that, why are they running that way—and more often than not, his questions came to you.

"Was that good?"

"Why did they stop him?"

"Is Dad mad?"

"How far is a touchdown?"

You answered each one as best you could, breaking things down simply, leaning in close enough so he could hear you over the crowd. Sometimes Cassie answered too, or Marsha chimed in, but Luca kept turning toward you instinctively—as if somewhere in his mind, you'd been filed under safe to ask.

By the second quarter, the pattern was impossible to ignore.

When Nate completed a big pass and the stadium erupted, Luca grabbed your arm first.

"That was him!" he shouted, bouncing in his seat.

You grinned. "Yeah, that was him."

When the team pushed down the field and the crowd rose to its feet, Luca stood too, nearly climbing over the seat in front of him.

"Do you think he's gonna score?" he asked, tugging your sleeve.

"Maybe," you said, laughing. "If his line holds."

Luca repeated it immediately, like it was sacred strategy. "If his line holds," he echoed seriously.

Then Nate did score.

Or rather, Nate led the drive, called the play, and the team punched it in clean. The stadium absolutely detonated around you—cheers slamming into the air, people jumping to their feet, music blaring, screens flashing 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 in giant letters.

Luca screamed.

So did Marsha.

You were on your feet with them, laughing as the whole section roared and clapped and pointed toward the field.

And in the middle of all that noise, Luca turned to you again.

"He did it!" he yelled, throwing himself against your side in excitement. "Dad did it!"

You laughed, steadying him with a hand at his back. "Yeah, he did."

Cassie clapped along, smiling because how could she not? Her son was lit up in a way she hadn't seen often enough lately—purely, openly happy. And Nate, down there on the field, looked powerful and sure and completely in his element.

But even through her smile, she noticed it.

The way Luca kept reaching for you.

The way he kept checking your face after the big moments, like your reaction helped confirm his own. The way he repeated your words back, not hers. The way, every time Nate did something impressive, Luca's first instinct was to turn toward you like you were part of the explanation.

Even the smallest things started to pile up.

When Luca wanted help opening his snack, he leaned toward you.

When he wanted to know if Nate would come over after the game, he asked you.

When he proudly pointed at the giant screen during a replay, his shoulder bumped yours first.

And each time, you responded without making it a thing. Easy. Warm. Never overstepping. Never acting like his parent. Just... there. Present. Familiar.

That somehow made it worse.

Because Cassie couldn't even be angry about it properly.

It wasn't like you were trying to win him over in some calculated way. If anything, you were careful. Respectful. You never corrected her. Never inserted yourself in ways that made a scene. You answered questions, smiled when he talked, explained the game, handed him snacks, laughed at his comments.

That was all.

And yet.

From where Cassie sat, it was enough to make something unpleasant gather under her ribs.

A hot, quiet jealousy.

Not romantic jealousy—not exactly.

Something more layered than that.

Because Luca wasn't just warming up to Nate.

He was warming up to the life around Nate too.

To Marsha fussing over him. To Aaron's teasing when he tagged along to other things. To you sitting there beside him in the stands, explaining football and smiling at him like this all made sense, like there was already a seat for him in the life you and Nate had built.

Cassie kept her face composed, but every time Luca leaned toward you again, she felt it.

That small pull of something bitter.

During halftime, while everyone around you stood to stretch or make snack runs, Luca stayed in his seat kicking his legs and talking a mile a minute about what he'd seen.

"Did you see that throw?" he asked you, eyes huge. "That was crazy."

"It was a good one," you said.

"He looked cool," Luca added, then corrected himself with six-year-old seriousness. "No—he looked really cool."

You laughed. "Yeah, your dad tends to do that."

Cassie looked at the two of you then, really looked, and had to force her expression not to change.

Because Luca was glowing.

And some part of her—small, ugly, undeniable—resented that you were now part of what made him glow.

She looked back out at the field, jaw tightening faintly as the teams re-emerged from the tunnel.

Marsha, oblivious to the tension in Cassie's chest, leaned over Luca with a smile. "You having fun, sweetheart?"

Luca nodded eagerly. "Yeah! Dad's really good."

"Yes, he is," Marsha said proudly.

Then Luca added, without even thinking, "And Y/N says the line held, so that's why it worked."

Marsha chuckled. "Well, Y/N's right."

You smiled at him, amused.

Cassie rolled her eyes ever so slightly and turned her face toward the field before anyone could catch it.

Just a small movement. Barely there.

But inside, the feeling stayed.

Because this was what she hadn't prepared for—not just Nate stepping into Luca's life, but Luca reaching right past her expectations and taking hold of the people around Nate too.

And whether she liked it or not, whether it pinched or stung or made jealousy bloom where she wanted grace instead—

You were becoming part of Luca's normal too.

Once the game ended, the stadium didn't calm down so much as shift shape.

The roar that had been trapped in the stands spilled outward into the concourses, into the exits, into the long concrete arteries beneath the arena where staff, security, family, and media all moved in separate currents. The field was still alive behind you—players shaking hands, camera crews swarming, the giant screens replaying the biggest moments while fans slowly filed out with hoarse voices and half-finished drinks.

But you all were moving in a different direction.

A team staffer wearing a credential around his neck led the group away from the main crowd, through a side corridor and down toward the underground family access area beneath the stadium. The energy there was different—still busy, still charged, but more controlled. The air smelled faintly of concrete, detergent, and the ghost of turf carried in on cleats. Golf carts rolled by occasionally. Staff members with headsets clipped to their ears spoke in quick, clipped phrases. Somewhere down the hall, a metal equipment cart squeaked over the floor. Another hallway farther off echoed with bursts of laughter from players heading toward the locker room.

Luca stayed close as you walked, his little sneakers making quick, excited sounds against the polished concrete floor. The oversized jersey still hung on him, though now it was slightly wrinkled from all the cheering and twisting around in his seat. His cheeks were still flushed from the game, and his excitement clearly hadn't worn off yet.

Marsha walked on his other side, one hand occasionally hovering near his back in that grandmotherly way—ready to steady him even when he didn't need it. Her husband moved beside her, calmer than the rest, but no less proud, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket while his eyes took in everything. Cassie followed just a half-step behind, bag on one shoulder, expression composed and pretty in the way she always seemed to manage even after a long day.

And you—

You were the one Luca kept drifting toward.

By the time you reached the waiting area underground, it had become impossible not to notice. It was a wide open space sectioned off for family and approved guests, lined with a few benches and industrial-looking walls softened only by framed team posters and directional signs. Security stood at the edges, and every few seconds someone important-looking walked by with a clipboard or a camera rig.

You all settled there to wait for Nate.

Luca practically vibrated with energy.

"Did you see that throw in the second quarter?" he asked you for what had to be the fourth time, not because he'd forgotten your answer, but because he clearly liked hearing it repeated.

You smiled, leaning back against the wall behind you while he stood in front of you, hands moving as he talked.

"The one down the sideline?" you asked.

"Yes!" he said, eyes widening. "The really long one."

"Yeah," you replied, nodding. "That was clean. Perfect timing too."

Luca mimicked the motion of a pass with his arm, nearly smacking himself in the face with how hard he committed to it. "Like that?"

You laughed softly. "A little less wild. But sure."

He grinned, encouraged, then launched into another rapid-fire thought. "And when everyone screamed after the touchdown, I thought my ears were gonna explode."

"That's because you were screaming too," you pointed out.

"I know," he said, absolutely unashamed. "It was awesome."

Cassie stood a few feet away with Marsha, not far enough to be separate, but far enough to observe.

And she did.

She watched the easy little bubble that had formed between you and Luca—the way he angled himself toward you without even thinking about it, the way your voice automatically softened when you answered him, the way you listened like every one of his observations actually mattered.

It wasn't showy. It wasn't performative. You weren't crouching down trying to win him over or stepping into some role that wasn't yours.

You were just... good with him.

Comfortable.

And Luca, in turn, was comfortable right back.

He reached for your sleeve absentmindedly while talking. He pointed things out to you first. He laughed easier when you answered him. At one point he leaned in conspiratorially to tell you that a player on Nate's team was "funny but a lot," which nearly made you laugh out loud.

Cassie caught all of it.

Every small thing.

Marsha was too buoyant in her post-game glow to notice much beyond the fact that her grandson looked happy and her son had played beautifully. Her husband kept making the occasional dry comment about a call the refs had blown. But Cassie's focus kept drifting back to you and Luca.

Because from where she stood, it looked... natural.

More natural than she wanted it to.

Time stretched in the waiting area in that odd, suspended way it always did after a game. Players didn't come out right away. First they had to shower, dress, be checked by trainers, speak to coaches, and then get pulled into waves of interviews and press obligations. Family members waited in little clusters, all of them pretending patience while scanning every hallway for familiar faces.

Luca asked, "How long does it take?"

"A while," Marsha answered gently.

"Does Dad know we're here?" Luca asked next, looking at you.

You nodded. "Yeah. He knows."

That seemed to satisfy him for maybe thirty seconds.

Then he started asking what players did after games, whether Nate got hungry, if he was tired, if football hurt, whether you ever got this tired after running, whether touchdowns counted if the player got tackled after—

You answered every question you could. The ones you couldn't, you made a joke about until he giggled.

Cassie watched you do it all and tried very hard not to let her face show too much.

Then finally, the movement in the corridor shifted.

A group of players emerged from deeper in the tunnel area, most of them freshly showered and changed into branded sweats, clean sneakers, team jackets, or carefully styled post-game outfits for press. They walked in a loose line, some still talking to each other, some already slipping into interview mode with smiles sharpened and posture straightening.

And there he was.

Nate.

Even from a distance, he stood out.

His hair was still damp from the shower, curls darkened and pushed back from his forehead. He wore a fitted team jacket unzipped over a clean T-shirt, joggers that sat low on his hips, and that same post-game gravity he always carried after a strong performance—adrenaline not fully burned off yet, body finally scrubbed clean but still buzzing underneath the surface.

He was walking with a few other players toward the interview area, a PR staffer already guiding them forward.

But the second he saw you all, he broke from the flow.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

His whole face changed first—tight focus loosening into something warmer, more private. His steps angled toward your group without hesitation, and Luca straightened immediately like a little wire had been pulled tight through him.

"Dad!" Luca said, the word bright and automatic now.

Nate's smile came quick.

He didn't stop for long—he clearly couldn't, not with the media line waiting—but he made the moment count anyway.

He reached you first.

His hand came up to cup the side of your face for half a second, thumb brushing your cheek in a gesture so instinctive it didn't look planned at all. Then he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn't a lingering, bedroom kind of kiss. It was quick, warm, and familiar—something between greeting and gratitude, a tiny pulse of intimacy in the middle of all the noise. But it was enough. Enough that everyone around you could see it. Enough that it carried the easy confidence of people who had done this a thousand times and still meant it every time.

Then he turned to Luca.

His large hand landed on top of the boy's head, fingers ruffling through his hair with affection that was already starting to come naturally.

"What's up, buddy?" Nate asked, voice lower now, softened for him.

Luca beamed up at him. "You were so good."

Nate laughed softly. "Yeah?"

"You did the long throw," Luca said seriously, gesturing with both hands. "And the touchdown."

Nate glanced at you, amused. "Did he break down the game for you?"

"He's been doing a full post-game analysis for the last twenty minutes," you said.

"That's because I know football now," Luca announced.

Nate huffed out a smile, eyes warm. "Clearly."

He squeezed Luca lightly at the shoulder, then glanced back down the hallway where the PR staffer was waiting with the strained patience of someone who knew better than to rush players in front of family.

"I gotta go do interviews," Nate said, looking between Luca and you. "Then I'll be back."

Luca nodded like he accepted the terms of this contract.

"Okay."

Nate gave him one last little tousle of the hair, then let his hand slide briefly to the back of your neck as he passed you again—a tiny touch, intimate enough to be felt more than seen.

And then he was gone, folding back into the line of players heading toward cameras and microphones and carefully phrased answers.

For a second, nobody said anything.

Because the moment had lingered.

Cassie stood a little apart, one hand looped through the strap of her bag, and watched the space Nate had just left behind. Her eyes moved from the corridor to Luca, then to you.

And there it was again.

That image she hadn't asked to see so clearly.

You.

Nate.

Luca.

The three of you had fit together in that tiny, casual sequence of motions with unsettling ease—Nate stopping on instinct, kissing you first, touching Luca next, looking between both of you like you were the people he expected to see waiting for him after a game.

In Cassie's eyes, the picture was immediate and painfully complete.

A little family.

Not official. Not by title. Not in the traditional shape she would've once imagined.

But a family all the same.

You standing there with your calm, steady presence. Luca glowing under Nate's attention. Nate moving between the two of you with a naturalness that suggested he already saw you as a unit.

Cassie's chest tightened.

It wasn't that she wanted the kiss. It wasn't even exactly that she wanted the image for herself.

It was that she hadn't fully prepared for how whole the three of you would look together.

How lived-in.

How easy.

Marsha, meanwhile, looked delighted—practically floating with pride after seeing her son play, then watching him stop for the people waiting for him underground. Her husband gave a small grunt of approval, like this too fit some internal standard he had for what a man should do after a game.

Luca just looked thrilled.

"He kissed you fast," he said to you matter-of-factly, as if it were an observation worth logging.

You laughed despite yourself. "Yeah. He had somewhere to be."

Luca nodded solemnly, apparently satisfied with that.

Cassie rolled her eyes just a little and looked away toward the corridor, but the feeling stayed lodged under her ribs.

Because whether she liked it or not, whether it stung or annoyed or quietly unsettled her—

From where she stood, under the bright industrial lights of the stadium tunnel, watching Nate peel off from fame and football and the cameras just long enough to come back to you and Luca—

You three looked like home to each other.

𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑭𝑬𝑬𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑮 stayed with Cassie long after the stadium lights were behind them.

It clung to her through the drive to the restaurant, through the hostess leading them to a large booth in the back, through the scrape of chairs and the low murmur of other diners talking over drinks and late dinners. It sat in her chest like something hot and irritating she couldn't cough up or swallow down.

Because even once the game was over, even once everyone had changed settings from stadium-family to restaurant-family, the dynamic hadn't shifted.

If anything, it had become harder to ignore.

The restaurant was warm and softly lit, all amber hanging lights and polished wood, with the scent of grilled meat, butter, wine, and fresh bread weaving through the air. It was the kind of place Marsha liked—nice without being too stiff, familiar enough that the staff greeted her husband by name and didn't blink at the size of the group.

They were seated in a wide semicircle booth, the adults arranged around Luca almost instinctively, like his presence had become the center all of them were quietly orbiting.

Marsha took the seat closest to him first, of course. Her husband slid in beside her, calm and watchful. Cassie sat on Luca's other side at the start, but it didn't stay feeling that simple for long. Nate took the seat across from Luca, close enough to talk to him easily, and you slid in beside Nate—not on the outskirts, not politely detached, but exactly where you always seemed to be now:

At his side.

That alone made something tighten in Cassie.

Not because it was inappropriate. Not because it was shocking.

Because it was natural.

Too natural.

Nate didn't have to think about reaching for your drink when the waitress asked what everyone wanted. He didn't have to pause before leaning in to murmur something low to you while the menus were being passed around. He didn't hesitate when Luca asked a question and the answer came from both of you in easy succession, like you'd already learned how to occupy the same space around him without tripping over each other.

Cassie told herself to get over it.

This was what she wanted, wasn't it?

She had wanted Luca to know his father. She had wanted Nate to show up. To be present. To stop being a name and become a real person in their son's life. She had wanted access, stability, consistency—something more than memories and explanations and old photos.

And she'd gotten it.

But what she hadn't expected—what she hadn't prepared herself for—was that Nate wouldn't be building this relationship with Luca in isolation.

He had made that clear from the beginning.

Clear in the park, clear at Marsha's, clear every time he referred to you as family, as someone whose life this also affected. Cassie had heard him. She had understood the words.

Still, understanding the words and living inside the reality of them were two very different things.

Because this wasn't just you being "involved."

This wasn't you occasionally tagging along or hovering in the background as Nate navigated fatherhood.

This felt bigger.

More embedded.

More permanent.

It felt, to Cassie's increasingly irritated eyes, like you weren't simply part of Nate's life while Nate was a father.

It felt like you were becoming part of Luca's life too.

Something dangerously close to a stepfather.

And every time the thought formed clearly enough to name, she rejected it on instinct.

Not because you were doing anything wrong.

That was the worst part.

You weren't trying to overstep. You weren't inserting yourself with force or claiming territory that wasn't yours. You weren't calling the shots or trying to outshine her or play house in some theatrical way.

You were just... there.

Present. Warm. Solid. Easy for Luca to reach for.

And Luca, annoyingly, had taken to that with very little resistance.

By the time the drinks came and bread was set in the middle of the table, he was already deep into retelling the game, and once again, his body kept angling toward you and Nate both.

"At the part where Dad threw the really long pass," Luca was saying, hands moving wildly to demonstrate, "everybody around us screamed so loud, I thought my ears were gonna break."

Aaron would've laughed at that, Cassie thought absently—then remembered Aaron wasn't there tonight and, for some reason, wished he was. His presence might've diluted some of the feeling. Given her something else to focus on.

Instead, she was left with this.

Nate smiled across the table, the expression softer than the public one he wore for fans and cameras. "Your ears survive?"

"Barely," Luca said, then turned to you. "But Y/N said it was because the line held."

Cassie's eyes flicked to you instantly.

You smiled into your water glass like you weren't even trying to make that cute. "I did say that."

"And he was right," Luca informed Nate proudly, as if presenting you as a reliable source.

Nate looked over at you, amused and warm in a way that made Cassie's stomach twist. "He usually is."

That little exchange—small, harmless, entirely ordinary—lodged under her skin anyway.

Because it was happening over and over now.

Luca didn't just talk to Nate.

He talked through you sometimes. Around you. Toward you. He folded you into the rhythm of his questions and excitement like it had already become second nature.

Cassie picked up her wine and took a careful sip, letting the coolness sit on her tongue while she kept her expression neutral.

Marsha, meanwhile, was in full grandmother mode.

She fussed over Luca's menu options. Asked if he wanted fries or vegetables. Suggested dessert before anyone had even ordered entrees. Her husband chimed in occasionally with dry observations that made Luca blink and then laugh two seconds later when he realized the joke.

The whole table had a kind of warm, lived-in energy to it by the time the food arrived.

Steaks and pasta and salmon and a child-sized burger with fries. More bread. More drinks. The waitress coming back often enough that she had clearly clocked this table as one to keep happy.

And the more comfortable the table got, the more Cassie felt that earlier image from the stadium refuse to leave her.

You.

Nate.

Luca.

A little family.

Not the one she would have imagined years ago. Not one built out of what she once thought her life would be. But real enough now to feel like a threat to whatever fragile emotional order she'd expected.

She watched Nate cut part of his steak while still listening to Luca tell a rambling story about a kid at school who thought dolphins were fish. She watched you reach over and slide the ketchup closer before Luca even had to ask. She watched Luca bounce happily between all of it, never once looking uncomfortable in the web of attention around him.

And she hated—quietly, bitterly, irrationally—how much it worked.

Not enough to stop it.

Never that.

She still wanted Luca to have this.

She still wanted him to know Nate, to feel loved by his father, to have access to that side of himself and that side of the family.

But she hadn't expected the emotional texture of it to feel like this.

Like being slowly edged out of a picture she herself had set in motion.

Then, somewhere between the main course and the first conversation about dessert, Marsha leaned back slightly in her seat with that specific look she got whenever an idea had fully formed in her head and she'd already decided it was excellent.

"Oh," she said, brightening all at once, "I just had the best idea."

Her husband glanced at her over the rim of his glass with the weary patience of a man who had been married long enough to recognize when he was about to be volunteered for something.

"That's always dangerous," he muttered.

Marsha ignored him.

She set her fork down and looked around the table, clearly pleased with herself. "We should take a vacation."

Cassie blinked.

Nate looked up from his plate. "A vacation?"

"Yes," Marsha said, warming to it immediately. "A family vacation."

The way she said family made the table shift subtly. Cassie felt it. So did Nate. You did too, though your face stayed more composed than hers.

Marsha pressed on before anyone could question her momentum.

"The one we used to take every summer when the boys were younger," she said, glancing fondly between Nate and the empty memory of Aaron not being there. "Cabin by the lake. Little town, lots of trees, boats, hiking, bonfires. You remember."

Nate did remember. Cassie could tell by the way his face changed slightly—some mix of nostalgia and surprise pulling at his features.

Marsha smiled at Luca. "It would be your first family vacation with us," she said, and her voice softened around the thought. "A proper one. Swimming, s'mores, staying up too late. No school, no work, no rush. Just time together."

Luca's eyes widened instantly.

"A cabin?" he repeated, captivated.

"Yes," Marsha said. "A real cabin."

"With a lake?" he asked.

"With a lake," she confirmed.

"Can you fish there?"

"If your father remembers how," Marsha replied.

Nate snorted softly. "I remember."

Luca looked thrilled now, practically vibrating again in his seat. "Can we go on a boat?"

"We used to," Nate said, leaning forward a little. "Used to rent one every summer."

Cassie sat very still.

Because of course Marsha's idea wasn't just a casual outing or a Sunday lunch.

It was bigger than that.

Longer. More intimate. More loaded.

A vacation meant days together. Shared meals. Shared mornings. Shared memories being built all at once instead of in carefully rationed little pieces. It meant Luca stepping deeper into Nate's family structure. Into their traditions. Into their story.

And, if she was honest, it meant you being there too.

Because there wasn't a world now where Nate went on a "family vacation" involving Luca and simply left you behind. Cassie knew that before anyone even said it out loud.

She could already see the shape of it.

The cabin. The lake. Nate carrying bags. You probably packing sunscreen and snacks because somebody had to think ahead. Marsha fussing over room assignments. Luca running between all of you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The idea made her smile politely.

It also made jealousy bloom hotter in her chest.

Because this was exactly what she hadn't expected when Nate said you'd be involved.

She had imagined participation.

Support.

Presence.

She had not imagined integration so seamless it began to resemble a role.

Stepfather.

The word scraped at her pride even as she refused to say it aloud.

Marsha kept talking, fully committed now. "It would be good for everyone," she said. "Good for Luca. Good for all of us, honestly. Time away to just enjoy each other instead of constantly feeling like everything has to be a serious conversation."

Her husband nodded once, which in his language practically meant enthusiastic support. "Kid should see the lake," he said simply.

Luca looked around the table, eyes bright with hope now. "Can we really go?"

Nate looked at Cassie first.

That, at least, he got right.

Not because he needed permission like a child, but because he understood what this was really asking. Time. Trust. Space. Shared custody of memory, if not legally then emotionally.

Cassie met his gaze, her smile still in place, thin but functional.

And then, almost against her own will, her eyes flicked to you.

Because you were part of the equation whether she liked it or not.

You weren't speaking. You weren't pushing. You were just sitting there, one hand around your glass, expression thoughtful, already looking like someone considering logistics instead of fantasy—schedules, weather, what Luca might need, how to make it easy instead of overwhelming.

Again.

So steady.

So embedded.

Cassie looked back at Nate and felt that bitter little ache twist once more.

Because yes, she wanted Luca to know his father.

She wanted him loved.

Wanted him included.

Wanted him to experience joy and family and belonging.

But she hadn't expected that in getting all of that... Luca might also end up loving the life Nate had built without her.

And that life, infuriatingly, had you standing right in the middle of it.

𝑳𝑨𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑵𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻, Cassie was back in her apartment with the kind of silence that only settled in after a long, emotionally loaded day. Luca had already been handled—bathed, changed into pajamas, tucked into bed after a sleepy stream of last-minute questions and one extra request for water. His bedroom door was cracked just enough for the hall light to spill in softly, and from down the hallway, the faint sound of a children's sleep soundtrack drifted through the stillness.

The rest of the apartment glowed in warm, curated light. Her vanity bulbs were on. Candles flickered on the dresser. Her phone was propped up on its stand in front of the mirror, already recording as she sat in her silk robe, hair clipped back, skin prepped for the "get ready with me" night routine she knew her followers loved. It should have been easy. Familiar. Muscle memory. Smile at the camera, say something vague and pretty, talk about skincare, maybe hint at an "emotionally crazy day" without giving details, let the comments fill in the rest.

She had already started.

"Okay, so tonight has been..." Cassie began, glancing into the front-facing camera with the perfect mix of softness and exhaustion she knew played well online, "...a lot, and I feel like I really need to reset—"

Her phone buzzed.

The notification banner slid across the top of the screen.

Nate Jacobs made a post.

Cassie froze.

Her eyes dropped instantly to the screen, lashes lowering as the words registered. For a second, she didn't move, like maybe if she ignored it the curiosity would pass. It didn't. If anything, it sharpened, immediate and invasive, cutting straight through whatever polished little online persona she'd been trying to step into.

Without thinking, she reached forward and stopped the recording.

The red timer vanished. The room seemed quieter after that, stripped of performance.

She picked up her phone.

For a moment, all she could see was her own reflection in the black edge of the screen—blonde hair pinned back, gloss still fresh, expression already tightening before she'd even opened the app. Then she tapped the notification.

Nate's post loaded.

It was a carousel.

The first photo was from the game—Nate in uniform on the field under the stadium lights, helmet off, sweat on his skin, expression sharp and focused in that way people always loved. The kind of shot that would instantly do numbers because he looked every inch like the version of him the public had built into something larger than life. Cassie barely paused on it. She swiped.

The next photo hit differently.

Luca.

Her son was in the frame wearing the oversized jersey, smiling so hard his whole face had changed shape. He was standing in the stadium tunnel, cheeks still flushed from excitement, one hand lifted mid-gesture like he'd been talking when the picture was taken. Nate had captioned nothing yet in her mind—because she hadn't even looked at the words. The image alone was enough. Luca on Nate's page. Luca in the polished, public, carefully chosen grid of Nate's life.

She swallowed.

Swipe.

Another game shot. Another candid. Then dinner.

Marsha smiling at Luca across the table. Her husband half-caught in a candid while reaching for his drink. A photo of the table itself with plates, drinks, dessert, all warm golden tones and family-dinner intimacy. Cassie felt her chest tighten a little more with each slide.

And then—

You.

There was a picture of you and Nate together from after the game, clearly taken in that casual, affectionate way that only happened when people around you were used to seeing you like this. Nate had one arm around your shoulders, pulling you close while you were laughing at something off-camera. Your head was tilted slightly toward him, your smile easy and real, and his face—his face looked softer than Cassie remembered it ever being when he was younger. Open. Settled. Intimate in a way that made the photo look less like a moment and more like a life.

She swiped again too fast, then backtracked.

Another one.

You, Nate, and Luca.

Not posed exactly, which somehow made it worse. Luca was in the middle, looking up at Nate while your hand rested lightly at his back. Nate's attention was on Luca. Yours was on both of them. It was subtle, candid, easy—three bodies caught in a moment of natural closeness that didn't need explanation because it explained itself.

Cassie's thumb stilled on the screen.

For a second, the vanity lights around her mirror felt too bright.

She scrolled back up and finally forced herself to read the caption.

It was simple. Too simple. Something about a good win, good people, gratitude, family. Maybe an understated blue heart or a football emoji thrown in because Nate wasn't one for long paragraphs. That only made it worse. He didn't need to spell it out. The pictures did that for him.

Cassie sat back in her chair slowly, phone still in her hand, the unfinished GRWM setup glowing uselessly in front of her. Her stomach felt tight, not with heartbreak exactly, but with something more irritated and humiliating. Because she had already seen the dynamic in person. She had already felt how natural you and Nate moved around Luca, how easily Luca reached for you, how fully Marsha had embraced him. But seeing it like this—publicly, aesthetically, preserved and posted—did something else.

It made it official in a way that dinner hadn't.

It made it look not temporary, not fragile, not under construction.

It made it look real.

Cassie's thumb moved almost on instinct after that, dragging her back to Nate's page. If tonight was in the grid, then what else had been there? How much had she ignored? How much had changed in the last few months while she was busy trying not to think too hard about what Nate's life actually looked like now?

She started scrolling.

And scrolling.

At first, it was what she expected—game photos, campaign shoots, team posts, highlights from his career, the occasional training video, a clean shot of him in some expensive jacket leaning against a car like he'd never once had an awkward phase in his life. But the deeper she went into the more recent months, the clearer the shift became.

There was Luca again.

Not everywhere. Nate wasn't flooding the page with him. But enough. Enough that it was obvious this wasn't some one-time inclusion or performative introduction. A small hand in a photo from the aquarium. The back of Luca's head in a diner booth with pancakes. A picture of little sneakers beside Nate's larger pair at the apartment door. A soccer ball in the grass with the caption suggesting a Sunday afternoon. A child-sized drawing taped to the fridge in the background of one of Nate's mirror selfies.

And then there were the three of you.

Over and over again, not always center frame, but undeniably present as a pattern.

A park photo with Nate on a bench, Luca half-climbing over him, and you standing nearby laughing. A blurry candid of you and Luca in the kitchen with flour on the counter while Nate's caption joked about "coming home to chaos." A picture on the couch—Luca between you both, asleep, while Nate's arm stretched behind all of you. Another in a restaurant booth. Another on a walk. Another from some lazy Sunday where Luca had clearly spent the night because there were tiny socks on the floor and sunlight all over the bed sheets.

Cassie's chest went hotter the longer she looked.

Because Nate hadn't hidden you from any of it.

He hadn't separated the stories. Hadn't carved the page into "my son" and "my partner" like two distinct categories. The images blended. Interlocked. Overlapped. And when she clicked into his highlights, it got worse.

There were new circles there now. Clean, minimal titles. Game Day. Summer. Luca. Home.

She tapped one.

And there you were again.

Quick clips of Luca laughing from the passenger seat while Nate drove. A story of you crouched beside him helping him tie a shoe. Nate's voice behind the camera while he filmed you two arguing over what flavor ice cream to buy. A short video of all three of you in the backyard of some rented place or family house, Luca running through a sprinkler while you and Nate shouted fake warnings from the side. Another of Nate recording Luca painting while your voice in the background said, "No, babe, that is not where the brush goes," followed by Nate laughing.

Cassie clicked out and into another highlight.

Same thing.

Different day, same pattern.

You. Nate. Luca.

A tiny little family.

It was in the way the images were framed. In the way Nate looked at both of you. In the way Luca fit so easily into the visual language of Nate's life now. Not as an obligation. Not as a shock. Not as a problem being managed.

As belonging.

Cassie's jaw tightened.

Then, because apparently the universe was committed to making it worse, she made the mistake of looking at the comments.

The top ones were what you'd expect—fans talking about the win, thirst comments about Nate's post-game face, people calling him the best quarterback in the league. But tucked in between all of that were the ones that made her stomach turn.

username002: He looks so happy lately.

football_highlights: The family vibes are actually adorable.

y/n_theflash: Y/N, Nate, and the little one omg.

the_unofficalewife: Their son is so cute.

username2091: Y'all make the sweetest little family.

04_username: He's glowing differently now. Love looks good on him.

sofiebutter: The domestic era is everything.

Cassie's thumb stopped cold on that one.

Their son.

Not his son.

Their son.

She knew people on the internet were stupid. She knew strangers projected onto photos and filled in stories they didn't understand. She knew comments were comments, not law, not truth, not anything that should've mattered.

But they got under her skin anyway.

Because they were all seeing it too.

The same thing she'd been trying not to name.

The same shape that had been haunting her since the stadium.

It wasn't even just the comments praising Nate. Or the ones romanticizing you and him. It was the way complete strangers looked at those images and instantly read what Cassie had been resisting:

You three looked like a unit.

Looked like continuity. Stability. Home.

And no matter how many times Cassie reminded herself that she was Luca's mother, that she had been the one there from the first heartbeat, the first fever, the first word, the first scraped knee—that knowledge did not erase the sting of seeing the public absorb your place in his life so easily.

She tossed the phone onto the vanity for a second, then snatched it back up almost immediately, as if distance wouldn't help and maybe seeing more would somehow fix the feeling. It didn't. It only sharpened it.

Because every photo, every story, every highlight made one thing humiliatingly clear:

While Cassie had been worrying about whether Nate would step up, Nate had already done more than that.

He had stepped into fatherhood with both feet.

And he had done it with you standing right beside him.

Not behind him.

Not occasionally around.

Beside him.

Like this was the life he intended to keep.

Cassie looked at her reflection in the vanity mirror then, really looked. The ring light glow that usually made her feel polished now just made her feel exposed. Her robe slipped slightly at one shoulder, one hair clip sat crooked, and her mouth had flattened into that thin, bitter line she hated because it always made her look more like her worst self than her best one.

Behind her, the paused GRWM setup waited in silence.

Followers could wait.

Skincare could wait.

𝑩𝒀 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 the trip finally came around, Cassie had already made up her mind about one thing:

She was not going to spend the entire vacation fading into the background while everyone else played happy family around her son.

The moment the cabin, the lake, the bonfires, and the family schedule became real—bags packed, dates locked in, Marsha excitedly group-texting everyone about snacks and weather—something sharpened in Cassie. She told herself it was practical. Harmless, even. If this was Luca's first big vacation with Nate's side of the family, then of course she wanted to document it. Of course she wanted photos, videos, memories. Of course she wanted content.

But underneath that polished reasoning lived something less innocent.

Cassie wanted to even the playing field.

And Cassie, no matter how much she told herself she was above being bothered by the fact you weren’t going anywhere, kept finding fresh proof that she wasn't.

So when the trip arrived, she decided she would make sure she and Luca had their own moments too.

The vacation itself was exactly the kind of place Marsha would romanticize for years: a beautiful lake house tucked between tall trees, the air cleaner and cooler than the city, the scent of pine and water carrying on every breeze. The place had a wide wraparound porch, a wooden dock stretching out over the lake, stone pathways through the yard, and enough room inside to make it feel like everyone could spread out without ever fully drifting apart. The mornings came soft and misty over the water. The afternoons were warm, golden, and full of movement. The evenings felt made for string lights, grilled food, and stories that stretched longer than anyone planned.

It should have felt relaxing.

And in some ways, it did.

But from the minute everyone arrived, Cassie seemed to be moving through the trip with a second agenda running quietly behind every smile.

Her phone was always nearby.

Not just nearby—ready.

She was filming Luca running down the dock, Luca laughing on the porch swing, Luca with a juice box in one hand and his little sunglasses sliding down his nose, Luca pointing at the water, Luca beside a plate of pancakes in the morning light. Some of it was genuinely sweet. Some of it was exactly what any mother would want to capture. But there was something increasingly curated about it too, something polished and intentional in the angles she chose, the way she repositioned him slightly, the way she'd say, "Wait, baby, do that again," before pressing record.

It was full-on influencer mode.

Pretty framing. Clean light. Effortless captions already forming in her head before the memories were even finished happening.

And you noticed.

Not in a judgmental way, at least not out loud. You just noticed it the same way you noticed everything. The way she'd pause Luca before he took a bite so she could get the plate "before it gets messy." The way she'd drift toward the best lighting on the porch. The way half the vacation seemed to exist through the lens of how it would look later online.

It was exactly the kind of thing you made sure to steer clear of.

Not because you hated pictures. Nate took enough of you, of Luca, of quiet moments to prove that. But there was a difference between capturing life and curating it into a performance while it was still happening. You wanted the trip to feel like a trip. You wanted Luca making crooked s'mores and getting dirt on his shoes and laughing too hard to stay still for a photo. You wanted Nate actually relaxing instead of being made aware of a camera every other second.

So you stayed clear of it.

If Cassie wanted a soft-focus little montage of herself and Luca by the lake, fine. You gave her space to have it. You took yourself out of the line of fire without being dramatic about it. When you saw her setting up a shot, you drifted toward the grill with Marsha or followed Nate down to the dock or volunteered to grab drinks from the kitchen. It became almost instinctive—your quiet refusal to become part of content that wasn't meant for you.

And Nate noticed that too.

Of course he did.

He noticed the way you disappeared at exactly the right moment when Cassie started angling her camera. He noticed the little look you'd get—dry, amused, not quite annoyed enough to be called angry—before you found an excuse to move elsewhere. He noticed you choosing reality over optics every single time.

And privately, that made him want you more.

Not just in the emotional sense, though there was that too. There was something about the way you moved through the trip—comfortable, grounded, wholly uninterested in performing for anyone—that made Nate feel pulled toward you with a kind of helpless intensity. The lake house was full of people. Full of noise. Full of family. Full of Luca running around and Marsha narrating memories and Cassie floating through moments in a haze of beauty and calculation.

And through all of it, Nate kept finding his eyes on you.

On the deck in the mornings with a mug in your hand and your hair still sleep-messed. By the grill in the afternoons, one hip leaned into the wooden railing while you talked to his stepfather like you'd known him forever. Laughing with Luca on the dock after he asked you something deeply random and serious. Stretching out on a lounge chair with the sun making your skin glow in a way that nearly made Nate lose his mind in broad daylight.

He wanted you constantly.

Which would have been manageable if you hadn't noticed and made it worse on purpose.

Because you did notice.

The glances that lingered a little too long. The way his hand would settle low on your back and stay there half a second more than necessary when passing behind you. The way his jaw tightened whenever you bent over to unzip a bag or reached above your head for something in the kitchen. The look he'd give you across the dinner table when the conversation drifted elsewhere and the room forgot, briefly, that the two of you were very much not alone.

He couldn't wait to get you by yourself.

That became obvious by the second day.

Not because he said anything reckless in front of everyone—he wasn't stupid—but because Nate had never been as subtle as he thought he was when it came to you. His restraint always looked suspiciously like tension. His patience always looked a little too deliberate.

So when you two finally found yourselves alone for a moment in the hallway upstairs—everybody else outside by the lake, Luca somewhere between Marsha and a bag of marshmallows—you didn't miss the way Nate shut the bedroom door behind him with a little more focus than necessary.

He turned toward you, and the look on his face made you smile immediately.

"What?" you asked, already knowing.

Nate stepped closer, slow and quiet, hands sliding to your waist like he'd been waiting to touch you properly all day. "I need like... ten minutes," he muttered, voice low with frustration and want.

You laughed softly, letting your hands come up to rest against his chest. "Ten minutes?"

"With you," he clarified, as if that made it less obvious. "Alone. Without your future mother-in-law asking me to move a cooler or Cassie recording the sunlight hitting Luca's cereal."

That made you laugh harder, the sound warm and surprised as he leaned down to kiss the corner of your mouth.

"You're ridiculous," you murmured.

"I'm suffering," he said against your lips.

"Because you've had to exist around me in shorts for forty-eight hours?"

"Exactly."

You tilted your head, smiling now in that way that always made him want to kiss the smugness right off your face. "That sounds like a you problem."

He kissed you anyway—slow first, then deeper when you melted into it for a second. One hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, drawing you in closer until there was barely any space left between your bodies.

"You have no idea how bad it's gotten," he said quietly, lips brushing yours between words. "You've been walking around this house looking like that, smiling at me like that, and I can't do anything because there's always someone right there."

You bit back a grin. "Oh, I know exactly what I'm doing."

"Yeah," he muttered, and kissed your jaw. "That's the problem."

He dipped lower, mouth brushing the side of your neck in a way that made your fingers curl lightly into his shirt. Nothing too much. Nothing reckless. Just enough to make your breathing change and his satisfaction deepen at the reaction.

You tipped your head back for one dangerous second, then caught yourself and pressed a hand against his chest.

“Nate."

He hummed against your skin, not stopping.

"Nate," you repeated, firmer now, though the smile in your voice ruined any real authority you might've had.

He lifted his head just enough to look at you, eyes darker now, mouth already softened from kissing you. "What?"

You gave him a look—half amusement, half accusation. "You know," you said slowly, "for somebody who claims he's just trying to enjoy a family vacation, you're acting a little... specific."

His brows lifted faintly. "Specific?"

You nodded, a grin tugging at your mouth. "Mm-hm. Like maybe you have a fetish."

That made him pause.

Then he laughed—a low, startled sound, genuine and warm. "A fetish?"

"Yes," you said, enjoying yourself entirely too much now. "This whole secretly desperate on a family trip thing? Sneaking off upstairs while everyone's downstairs by the lake? It's suspicious."

His hands tightened lightly at your waist. "You are so full of shit."

"Maybe," you replied, leaning in just enough that your mouth ghosted his, "but you're the one pinning me against a wall because you can't handle me in vacation clothes."

He kissed you again before you could keep talking, clearly deciding that shutting you up was easier than arguing.

Still, he was smiling into it.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours and his thumb moved in a slow line along your side.

"I don't have a fetish," he said quietly.

You raised a brow. "No?"

"No," he replied. Then, after the slightest pause: "I just really, really want you."

You laughed under your breath. "See? Worse."

He nipped lightly at your lower lip for that, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp and grin.

Downstairs, somebody shouted Luca's name from outside, followed by Marsha's voice and the distant slam of a screen door.

Reality.

Both of you froze for half a second, listening.

Then you looked at each other and started laughing—quietly, helplessly, because of course that was how this trip kept going. A hundred people around, no privacy, stolen moments measured in minutes and footsteps.

You reached up and smoothed his hair back from his forehead, still smiling. "Behave," you whispered.

Nate kissed you one last time, quick and lingering all at once, then sighed like a man being sent back to war. "You are evil."

"And you," you murmured, patting his chest as you slipped past him toward the door, "are proving my theory."

He caught your wrist for half a second before you could open it, tugging you back just enough to press one more kiss to your mouth—softer this time, less desperate, more full.

Then he let you go.

And when you both headed back downstairs into the lake house noise—sunlight, voices, Luca's excitement, Cassie's phone somewhere nearby—that private little tension stayed between you like a secret spark.

𝑪𝑨𝑺𝑺𝑰𝑬 𝑳𝑨𝑰𝑫 in the king-sized bed in the upstairs guest room, the only light coming from the cool blue glow of her phone screen as it cast flickering shadows across the knotty pine walls and the heavy quilt pulled up to her waist.

Luca was curled beside her like a warm little comma, his small body tucked under the same blanket, breathing slow and even in the deep, dreamless sleep of a four-year-old who had spent the entire day racing between dock and bonfire. His thumb had slipped from his mouth hours ago, leaving a faint damp spot on the pillow, and every now and then his fingers twitched against the sheet as if he were still chasing fireflies in his dreams.

She had been scrolling through her gallery for the last twenty minutes, thumb moving with practiced precision—swiping, zooming, cropping, applying the soft golden filter that made everything look like it belonged in a lifestyle ad. There was Luca on the dock at golden hour, hair tousled by the lake breeze, sunglasses slipping down his nose exactly the way she wanted. Luca laughing on the porch swing, head thrown back, the light catching the curve of his cheek just right.

A dozen variations of the same perfect moments she had staged earlier, each one already mentally captioned: "Lake days with my favorite boy 🌊❤️" or "Making memories that last forever."

She told herself she was just organizing content for later, but really she was curating proof—proof that she and Luca still had their own little world, even here, even with you and Nate filling every other corner of the house.

The lake house was quiet now, or at least it should have been. The string lights on the porch had been switched off, the bonfire reduced to glowing embers down by the water, and the only sounds drifting up through the open window were the distant lap of waves against the dock and the occasional low hoot of an owl in the pines.

Cassie's thumb hovered over a photo of Luca holding a toasted marshmallow like a trophy when she heard it—the first noise.

A low, muffled sound from somewhere below. Not quite a voice. More like a breath catching, followed by the soft creak of furniture under weight. Then another noise: the distinct rustle of fabric, skin brushing skin, and a quiet, throaty murmur that didn't belong to Marsha or her husband or any of the polite goodnights everyone had exchanged an hour earlier.

Cassie's head lifted from the pillow. She listened harder, phone screen dimming automatically in her hand. The sounds continued—rhythmic now, intimate, unmistakable.

A soft laugh, quickly hushed. The shift of cushions. A low groan that sent an unwelcome spark straight through her chest.

She glanced at Luca—still dead asleep, mouth slightly open, one arm flung out across the mattress. Slowly, carefully, she eased herself out from under the quilt, bare feet meeting the cool hardwood floor without a sound. She wore only an oversized sleep shirt and soft cotton shorts, the fabric whispering against her thighs as she padded across the room.

The door was already cracked open a few inches; she slipped through it sideways, holding her breath, and left it exactly as she'd found it.

The upstairs hallway opened onto a wide balcony that overlooked the great room below, the railing made of thick, polished logs that smelled faintly of lacquer and pinel. Cassie moved like a shadow, keeping low, pressing her body against the wall where the moonlight didn't reach. She crouched just enough to peer between the vertical slats of the railing, heart beating hard enough that she could feel it in her throat.

The living room was mostly dark, lit only by the dying orange glow of the fireplace embers and the thin silver wash of moonlight spilling through the tall windows that faced the lake. The big sectional couch sat in the middle of it all, oversized and deep, the kind meant for lazy afternoons and family movie nights.

But it wasn't being used for either right now.

You were straddling Nate.

Your knees sank into the cushions on either side of his hips, your broad shoulders blocking some of the firelight as you leaned down over him. Nate's back was pressed into the corner of the sectional, one arm slung along the backrest, the other hand gripping your ass with open, possessive fingers that dug into the fabric of your sleep shorts.

The two of you were tangled in a kiss that looked like it had been building since the moment the last light went out downstairs—deep, hungry, no hesitation left. Nate's mouth moved against yours with deliberate intensity, tongue sliding slow and claiming, while his free hand fisted in the back of your shirt and tugged you closer.

You pulled back just far enough to speak, voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. "This is a bad idea," you muttered against his lips, the words half-protest, half-surrender. Your hands were braced on his chest, fingers spread wide over the thin cotton of his T-shirt, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat. "Everyone's right upstairs—Luca, your mom, Cassie—"

But even as you said it, you didn't move away. Instead you tilted your head, letting Nate chase your mouth again, letting him capture your lower lip between his teeth and tug gently.

A soft sound escaped you—not quite a moan, but close enough that Cassie's stomach tightened at the sound of it. Nate's hand on your ass squeezed harder, pulling your hips down against his in one slow, deliberate roll that made the couch creak again under the combined weight.

You rocked into it instinctively, thighs flexing, the muscles in your back shifting visibly under the thin fabric as you ground down once, twice, chasing the friction even while you whispered the warning again.

Nate didn't answer with words. He answered by tilting his head and dragging his open mouth along the side of your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark—dark, blooming, deliberate.

You tipped your head to the side to give him better access, a shaky exhale leaving your lungs as his teeth grazed the same spot and his tongue soothed it immediately after. His other hand slid up under the hem of your shirt, palm flat against the warm skin of your lower back, fingers splaying wide like he needed to feel every inch of you at once.

Cassie stayed perfectly still behind the railing, hidden in the deep shadow where the hallway met the balcony. One hand gripped the log post so tightly her knuckles went white. Her phone was still clutched in the other, screen long since gone dark, forgotten. She couldn't look away.

The sight of you—strong, unhurried, completely lost in Nate—hit her somewhere raw and unexpected. The way your thighs straddled him so confidently, the low rumble of your voice when you tried (and failed) to protest, the way Nate's hands claimed you like he had every right to, right there in the middle of the family living room where anyone could walk in.

The wet sound of mouths moving, the soft rustle of clothing, the occasional creak of the couch springs—all of it carried up to her with perfect, merciless clarity.

She watched Nate's fingers flex on your ass again, pulling you harder against him, and saw the way your hips answered on their own, rolling in a slow, filthy rhythm that made heat crawl up her own neck.

You muttered something else—"Nate, fuck, we can't"—but the words dissolved into another kiss as he sucked a second hickey just below your ear, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

Cassie's pulse hammered in her ears. She should have backed away. She should have gone back to bed, woken Luca if she had to, done anything except stand there frozen, hidden, watching the man who had inserted himself so seamlessly into her son's life get devoured by the father of that same son. But she didn't move.

She couldn't. The scene below kept unfolding in the flickering firelight—your bodies pressed together, mouths hungry, hands greedy, the quiet, desperate sounds of two people who had been holding back for days finally cracking open in the dark.

And Cassie stayed right where she was, breathing shallow, unseen, every detail burning itself into her memory like another perfectly framed shot she would never, ever post.

Nate's mouth had left the fresh, darkening hickey blooming just below your ear and traveled higher. He pressed his lips right against the shell of your ear, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly timbre that always seemed to rumble straight through bone and muscle. His breath was hot, slightly ragged from the way your hips had been grinding down against him, and the words came out slow and deliberate, each one laced with that mix of filthy promise and aching tenderness only he could pull off.

"You feel so fucking good like this," he whispered, the vibration of his voice sending a visible shiver down the line of your spine. "Been thinking about you all day... how these strong thighs would look wrapped around me later, how you'd sound trying so hard to stay quiet while I took my time with you."

His hand flexed possessively on your ass again, squeezing the firm muscle through your shorts. "You're mine, you know that? Every damn inch of you. Can't wait to get you behind that bedroom door and bury myself so deep you forget there's anyone else in this entire house."

You let out a quiet, shaky exhale that Cassie could hear even from her hiding spot, your fingers tightening in the front of Nate's T-shirt until the fabric bunched under your knuckles. Your back arched just slightly, hips rolling down against his lap one more deliberate time, the couch cushions continuing to creak softly under the combined weight of two grown men lost in each other.

Nate made a low, decisive sound in the back of his throat—half growl, half laugh.

"Enough teasing," he murmured, more to himself than to you. In one smooth, powerful motion he shifted his grip. His large hands slid under your thighs, palms hot and callused against your skin where your shorts had ridden up.

With obvious strength he lifted you as if you weighed nothing at all, the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing hard under the thin cotton of his shirt, veins standing out along his forearms.

The fact that you are tall but not as tall as Nate, had thick legs, solid from years of track and field, but Nate handled you like it was effortless.

Before you could do more than grip his shoulders, he flipped you over his shoulder in a classic fireman's carry—your upper body draping down his back, chest pressed to the solid plane of his shoulder blade, your ass now perfectly level with his chest.

A sharp, playful smack landed directly on your left ass cheek, the sound cracking through the quiet living room like a sudden whipcrack. The impact made your whole body jolt forward, a surprised, low grunt escaping your throat as heat bloomed across your skin.

"Quiet," Nate warned, the smirk clear in his voice even though Cassie couldn't see his face. His hand rubbed over the spot he'd just spanked, soothing and claiming at the same time, fingers digging in just enough to make you feel it. "You'll wake the whole damn house if you keep making sounds like that, baby."

You muttered something half-laughing, half-cursing into the back of his shirt—muffled words that sounded like "you're an asshole" mixed with breathless affection—your hands fisting tighter in the fabric for balance as Nate started walking.

His bare feet padded softly across the hardwood, each step deliberate and unhurried, like he was in no rush to hide what he was doing.

Cassie's eyes widened in the darkness, her pulse hammering so hard in her throat she could taste it. She watched, unseen, as Nate carried you straight toward the wide staircase that led up from the living room. The wooden steps creaked under his weight—soft, rhythmic groans that seemed impossibly loud in the sleeping house.

From her perfect vantage point on the balcony she saw every intimate detail: the way your body draped so easily over his broad shoulder, the flex and shift of Nate's back muscles with each step, the possessive way his free hand rested high on the back of your thigh, thumb brushing dangerously close to the curve of your ass. Your sleep shorts had ridden up even further from the carry, exposing the strong lines of your legs and the faint red handprint already forming where he'd smacked you.

They reached the top of the stairs and turned down the short hallway toward the bedroom you two shared—the one at the end with the big window overlooking the lake, the one that had been quietly claimed by the two of you since the first night.

Nate's free hand gave your ass another firm, appreciative squeeze, fingers spreading wide as he pushed the door open with his hip. The low, intimate chuckle that rumbled from deep in his chest carried back to Cassie like a blade, warm and satisfied and completely unaware of her presence.

The bedroom door clicked shut behind them with a soft, final sound.

Cassie stayed crouched exactly where she was, hidden in the deep shadow where the hallway met the balcony railing. Long after the muffled sounds of your voices drifted through the closed door—low laughter turning quickly into something lower, more urgent, the faint creak of the bed frame—she didn't move.

The jealousy that had been simmering inside her since the moment everyone arrived at the lake house finally boiled over into something hot, ugly, and all-consuming. It burned low in her stomach, sharp behind her eyes, tight in her throat until she had to swallow hard just to breathe.

Her hands shook where they gripped the log railing. Her jaw clenched so tightly it ached. She could still picture it in perfect, merciless detail: the way Nate had lifted you so easily, the possessive smack, the way your body had responded to him without hesitation right there in the middle of the family living room. Proof, again, that you weren't just in Nate's life—you were woven into it, claimed, wanted, taken.

She held it in, the jealousy and resentment and the sharp, painful ache of watching her son's father choose someone else so completely, but it was getting harder and harder to contain. The phone in her hand felt suddenly heavy, the gallery of perfectly curated photos of Luca now mocking her in the dark.

Down the hall, another soft sound filtered through the bedroom door—your voice, rough and pleased—and Cassie pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the railing, eyes burning, the night air suddenly too cold against her flushed skin.

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