When My Boyfriend Let Her Call Him Daddy

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.