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