I quit my job three months early.

I walked away from a year-end bonus most people would kill for. My boss in London stared at me like I'd lost my mind.

"Seven years, Kathryn," he said. "You can't wait ninety more days?"

"No," I said. "I can't."

Seven years of video calls. Seven years of five-hour time differences and "next year, babe, next year." I was done waiting for a life to start.

I boarded the red-eye with a carry-on full of little gifts. A tin of shortbread he loved. A navy scarf. Cufflinks I'd picked out on my lunch break. I didn't sleep. I just kept picturing his face when I walked through the door.

I landed at noon and killed the afternoon in a hotel lobby, so I could catch him after work. By six, I was standing in front of his building in Tribeca. Brick walls. Iron-framed windows. The same private elevator.

I still had the key. He'd given it to me our first year. "Just in case you ever surprise me," he'd said.

Well. Surprise.

I stepped into the foyer, and my smile slipped.

It happened in three beats.

First, the furniture. The sofa had been dragged to the window. The reading chair I loved was gone.

Second, the shoes. A pair of small blue sneakers sat by the door, Velcro straps still open.

Third, the smell. Onions and cumin. Somebody was cooking. Greyson Hamilton did not cook. In seven years, I'd never seen him do more than boil water.

My fingers tightened on my suitcase handle.

Then a door banged open. Small feet pounded down the hallway.

"Daddy! Daddy!"

A little boy, maybe five, shot past me like I was a coat rack. He threw himself at the man stepping out of the study.

Greyson.

He caught the boy without even thinking. One arm under him, the other hand on his back. He'd done it a hundred times. I could see that.

Then he looked up and saw me.

The color left his face. "Kat."

"Hi," I said. My voice sounded very far away.

A woman came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on an apron. Soft brown eyes. Soft voice. Hair pinned up like she'd just stepped out of a catalog.

The apron was gray linen, with my initials stitched in the corner. K.T. I'd bought it in Paris.

"Oh!" She pressed a hand to her chest. "You must be Kathryn. I'm Lina. Lina Morales. Greyson's told me so much." She smiled, a little shy. "I'm so sorry. I hope we're not intruding."

We.

I looked at Greyson. "Who is this?"

"My friend from childhood," he said. "And that's Andres." The boy buried his face in Greyson's neck. "Let's sit down. I'll explain."

He said it in the voice he used with clients. Calm. Rehearsed.

I sat on my own couch, in its new spot, like a guest.

Lina took Andres to the kitchen. Greyson sat across from me and rubbed his jaw.

"Her mother donated a kidney to my mom," he said. "You know that. Eleanor wouldn't be alive without her."

"I know the story. I don't know why her son calls you Daddy."

"Lina's divorced. It was ugly. Andres has attachment problems. His therapist said he needs a stable male figure." He spread his hands. "So I'm helping. Temporarily."

"Temporarily. In our apartment."

"Kat."

"You didn't tell me."

"Because I knew you'd react like this." His jaw tightened. "Look at you. You've been home five minutes, and you're already keeping score."

Heat crawled up my neck. "I'm asking a question."

"You're being cold." He said it quietly, which made it worse. "And petty. Her mother saved my mother's life. What kind of man would I be if I turned them away?"

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

He was so sure. His face was so open and righteous. For a second, I actually wondered if I was the problem. If seven years of distance had turned me into someone small.

So I swallowed it. The anger, the questions, all of it. It sat in my throat like a stone.

"Fine," I said.

He exhaled and reached for my hand. "Thank you. I knew you'd understand."

I let him hold it. I didn't squeeze back.

That night, I lay in the master bedroom, staring at the ceiling. The suitcase sat unopened in the corner. Gifts still inside.

Greyson was in the shower. Through the wall, I could hear Lina's voice in the guest room, low and sweet.

"And the little bear said, 'I'll always come back for you.'"

Andres giggled. Then it went quiet.

I turned my face into the pillow on Greyson's side, hoping for something familiar. His soap. His skin.

I smelled perfume.

Jasmine, a little amber. Almost mine. Close enough that my stomach dropped. Not close enough to prove anything.

I lay very still.

The shower shut off. Water dripped in the silence.

And I realized I was holding my breath, like someone in a house that wasn't hers.

I woke up to the sound of Andres laughing in the hallway.

The clock said seven. I hadn't slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I smelled that perfume.

Greyson was already up. His side of the bed was cold.

I pulled on a sweater and walked into the kitchen. Lina stood at the stove, humming. She wore leggings and an oversized white shirt. Greyson's shirt. I recognized the frayed collar.

Andres sat at the table, coloring. Greyson leaned against the counter with his coffee, scrolling through his phone.

"Morning," I said.

Lina turned. "Oh! Good morning, Kathryn. I made oatmeal. I hope that's okay."

I didn't answer. I just pulled out a chair and sat down.

Greyson glanced up. "Sleep okay?"

"Fine."

He went back to his phone.

Lina lifted the pot off the stove. It was heavy. I could see her arms strain a little as she carried it toward the table.

"Andres, baby, move your crayons," she said softly.

She took two steps.

Then she stumbled.

The pot tipped. Boiling oatmeal arced through the air in slow motion. It hit my forearm like a brand.

I gasped. The pain was instant and white-hot. I jerked back, knocking my chair over.

"Oh my God!" Lina dropped the pot. It clattered onto the floor. "I'm so sorry! Oh no, oh no—"

Greyson moved.

But not toward me.

He lunged across the kitchen and grabbed Lina's hands, turning them over, checking her palms. "Are you okay? Did it burn you?"

"I—I don't think so." Her voice shook. "I'm so sorry, Greyson. I don't know what happened. I just—"

"It's okay. You're okay." He pulled her into his chest. One hand on the back of her head. "You're fine."

I stood there, cradling my arm. The skin was already blistering. Red and angry and screaming.

Nobody looked at me.

I turned and walked to the bathroom. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else.

I locked the door. Turned on the faucet. Held my arm under the cold water.

The burn throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I watched the water run over the welts and thought about nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Twenty minutes passed.

A knock.

"Kat?" Greyson's voice. "You good?"

I turned off the water. Dried my arm carefully with a towel. The blisters were raw and shiny.

"Yeah."

I opened the door.

He was standing there with his hands in his pockets. "Let me see."

I held out my arm.

He winced. "That looks bad. You should put something on it."

"I will."

He nodded. Then he scratched the back of his neck. "Look, it was an accident. Lina feels terrible. She's in there crying."

I stared at him.

"Anyway," he said, "she made a reservation at that place in SoHo. The one with the garden. Thought it'd be nice for the three of us to get brunch. You know, start over."

"She made a reservation."

"Yeah. Eleven thirty. Sound good?"

I looked down at my arm. At the blisters that would scar.

"Sure," I said.

His face relaxed. "Great. I'll tell her."

He walked away.

I stood in the hallway and realized he never asked how much it hurt.

---

Over the next three days, I started to notice things.

Small things.

My favorite mug was gone. The blue one with the chipped handle. I'd had it since college. I asked Greyson about it.

"Oh," he said. "That old thing? It broke. I threw it out."

It hadn't been old. It had been mine.

I opened the bedroom closet to hang up a jacket. Half my space was gone. Lina's dresses hung where my coats used to be. Soft fabrics. Neutral colors. They smelled like jasmine.

I didn't say anything. I just closed the door.

On the third morning, I walked into the kitchen for coffee. Andres was at the table again, eating cereal.

I glanced at the refrigerator.

A drawing was pinned to the door with a magnet. Crayon stick figures. One tall, one medium, one small.

Labels in wobbly letters: "Daddy," "Mommy," "Me."

I stood there, holding my empty mug.

Greyson came in behind me. "Morning."

"Morning," I said. I pointed at the drawing. "That's new."

He looked. "Oh. Yeah. Andres made it yesterday. Cute, right?"

"He wrote 'Mommy.'"

"He's five, Kat. He doesn't know the difference."

"Did you correct him?"

Greyson's jaw tightened. "What?"

"Did you tell him Lina's not his mommy? That I'm—" I stopped.

That I'm what? Not his mommy either. Not anybody's anything in this apartment.

Greyson poured himself coffee. "You're making this bigger than it is."

"Am I."

"Yeah." He turned to face me. "You are. He's a kid. Kids draw pictures. It doesn't mean anything."

I looked at the drawing again. At the three smiling faces holding hands.

"Right," I said.

I left my mug on the counter and walked out.

That night, I lay awake again. Greyson snored softly beside me. I stared at the ceiling and counted.

One mug. Half a closet. One drawing.

One burn that nobody cared about.

I turned my head and looked at him in the dark. His face was peaceful. He had no idea.

Or maybe he did. Maybe that was worse.

Lina was good. I'll give her that.

She never did anything I could point at. That was the whole trick.

On Saturday morning, I stood in the kitchen doorway and watched her make Greyson's coffee. She didn't ask how he took it. She just knew. Two-thirds coffee, one-third steamed milk, no sugar. She stirred it exactly twice and tested the heat against her wrist.

Then she set it in front of him.

"Perfect temperature," he said, not even looking up.

"I remember," she said softly.

Seven years, and I still got it wrong half the time. He used to tease me about it.

I poured my own coffee. Black. Alone.

Lina turned to the fridge, and Greyson stood to refill his water. The kitchen was narrow. They did a small dance, and her shoulder pressed against his chest. Her hand landed flat on his arm to steady herself.

"Sorry!" She laughed, breathless. "I'm always in your way."

"You're fine," he said.

He didn't step back right away. Neither did she.

My fingers went tight around the mug. The ceramic was hot enough to hurt, and I let it.

Lina's eyes slid to me. Just for a second. Soft, wide, innocent.

Then something else flickered behind them. Something that wasn't soft at all.

I blinked, and it was gone.

"Oh, Kathryn," she said, pressing a hand to her chest. "I didn't see you there. I'm so sorry. I don't mean to intrude. We'll be out of your way soon, I promise."

She said it so sweetly. It made me feel like the villain in my own kitchen.

"Sunday's tomorrow," she added, turning back to Greyson. "Should I pack the little football for Andres? Or just the bubbles?"

"Bubbles," Greyson said. "He likes chasing them."

"What's tomorrow?" I asked.

Lina glanced at me, then away, like she'd said something she shouldn't. "Oh, it's nothing. Just our standing Sunday tradition. We take Andres to Central Park. Greyson started it a few months ago."

Our.

Standing.

Months.

I looked at Greyson. He suddenly found his coffee very interesting.

"You're welcome to join," Lina said gently. "If you want. I didn't mean to make you feel left out."

"I don't feel left out," I said.

I felt erased.

---

I waited until Andres was in the tub and Lina was singing to him through the door.

Then I shut the bedroom door and turned around.

Greyson sat on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his cuffs. He looked tired. He looked like a man who'd already decided how this would go.

"I need a date," I said.

"A date for what?"

"When they leave."

He sighed. It was a long, patient sigh. The kind you give a child who won't stop asking why.

"Kat. We talked about this."

"You talked. I swallowed." I kept my voice flat. "I flew across an ocean. I've been here five days. I have half a closet and a burn on my arm. I want a timeline. One month? Two? Something."

"You're overthinking this."

"Then it should be easy to answer."

He stood up. Slowly. He slid his hands into his pockets like he was trying to look relaxed.

"Andres is in a critical phase of therapy," he said. "His doctor said any disruption could set him back months. If I put a deadline on this, he'll feel it. Kids pick up on everything. It would be cruel."

"Cruel to who?"

"To a five-year-old."

"And me?"

He frowned like the question didn't make sense. "What about you?"

There it was.

I almost laughed. The sound got stuck somewhere behind my ribs.

"I'm asking for one boundary, Greyson. In my own home."

"It's not a boundary when it hurts a child." His voice dropped, gentle and disappointed. "I thought you were better than this, Kathryn."

The words landed like a slap.

Better than this.

He held my eyes for a moment longer, then crossed the room and kissed my forehead. Quick. Dry. The way you'd kiss someone at a funeral.

"Get some rest," he said. "You're exhausted. It's the jet lag."

He walked out.

I stood there, staring at the door. My arm throbbed under its bandage.

It wasn't jet lag.

---

At midnight, I locked myself in the bathroom with the fan on. The tile was cold under my bare feet.

It was five a.m. in London. She'd pick up. She always did.

"Kat?" Her voice was thick with sleep. "What's wrong?"

I opened my mouth to say I was fine.

Instead, it all came out. The apron with my initials. The drawing on the fridge. The oatmeal. The perfume on the pillow. The Sunday tradition. I talked fast and low, and my voice shook on the word *Daddy*.

When I finished, the line went quiet.

"Maybe I'm being unfair," I whispered. "He says I'm overthinking. His mom owes her mom so much. And Andres is just a kid, and—"

"Kathryn."

I stopped.

"Listen to me." She was wide awake now. Her voice was hard as glass. "That woman has moved into your life. She's wearing your clothes, sleeping down the hall from your man, and cooking in your kitchen. Get out of there."

"It's not that simple."

"It is exactly that simple."

I pressed my forehead against the cool mirror. My reflection stared back. Pale. Hollow-eyed. A stranger in a borrowed sweater.

"I have to go," I said.

"Kat—"

I hung up.

I walked to the bedroom window and pulled the curtain aside. Manhattan glittered below me, a thousand lit windows, a thousand other people's lives.

Behind me, Greyson slept with one arm flung across my side of the bed.

Down the hall, a door clicked softly. Footsteps. Then the quiet hiss of a faucet in the kitchen.

Lina, awake at midnight, in my home.

I should have packed. I knew I should have.

I just stood there, watching the city, and didn't move.