Chapter 9 Ant
NINE
ANT
My arms around Eli feel like they’ve always belonged there. My lips brush his neck again, slower this time.
“You know,” he says quietly, “if you keep doing that, I’m never getting this kitchen clean.”
“Fine by me.” I squeeze once, then step back enough that the cool air rushes in where his warmth had been.
He turns to face me and leans against the counter. He looks good in my space—barefoot, hair a little messy from the day, the faintest shadow on his jaw. There’s an ease in the way he’s watching me, like I’m not the only one pondering how quickly we got here.
“Henry’s in good hands with you,” I say, because it’s been sitting on my tongue all evening.
He shrugs like it’s nothing, but his eyes soften. “He’s a good kid. You make it easy.”
I clear my throat, resisting the urge to tell him that nothing about parenting solo has ever felt easy until recently. The shower cuts off, and just like that, we shift back into the rhythm of the evening.
I start towards Henry’s room but pause in the hall. “Give me twenty minutes to read him a chapter and get him settled? If you want to hang around.”
Eli leans against the sink, towel slung over one shoulder. “I can read to him, if you like.”
It takes me a moment to process that—long enough for the offer to land somewhere under my ribs. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he says, easy but certain.
Something in me melts. I can’t remember the last time my ex took over Henry’s bedtime without me asking twice. The idea that Eli would just… offer? That he’d want to? It’s a quiet, dangerous kind of kindness.
“Okay,” I say, smiling because I can already picture Henry lighting up. “He’ll love that.”
Before he turns to leave, I catch his arm and kiss him.
I mean to keep it light, but it tips quickly into something deeper, warmer, harder to pull back from.
Everything about him pulls me in; he’s a walking green flag, and it’s impossible not to notice.
When we part, his hand lingers on my arm for a second longer than necessary before he disappears into the hallway and heads upstairs.
I stay in the hall a beat, overhearing the low rumble of his voice as he starts the chapter, Henry’s responses between sentences quieter. The sound is so ordinary, so domestic, it hits me harder than it should.
When Eli reappears, he doesn’t say anything—just sends me a small smile that feels like we’re sharing a secret.
We fall into clearing the rest of the table together, easy as breathing.
Conversation drifts from the kids’ handball rivalry to a ridiculous rumour Mel heard about a local café selling avocado gelato to the possibility of a beach trip on Sunday.
But underneath it all, the awareness hums, steady and insistent. Every so often our eyes catch, and neither of us needs to look away anymore. There’s no longer any rush, and there’s no denying the energy between us either.
At the door, we linger a second longer than politeness requires. His goodbye is warm—more in the eyes than the voice—and when he steps out into the night, it feels like the air shifts with him.
The house feels bigger and quieter after he’s gone. Henry’s already half-asleep when I check in; I switch off his lamp and stand there for a moment longer than I need to before heading back to the lounge, my home still carrying the echo of Eli’s voice.
My phone’s on the coffee table, screen lit with a new message. Owen. Again.
Owen: Flights sorted. Will call to confirm times.
I blow out a breath and drop onto the couch.
I should be glad—it’s good for Henry to see him, to know his dad’s still around even if “around” is several time zones away.
But it’s complicated. Always has been. I don’t want old patterns creeping back in, and I don’t want Henry’s progress here to get knocked sideways.
I think about talking to Eli about it—really talking. The thought doesn’t make me nervous, which says a lot. In fact, I’m more worried about not leaning on him enough than leaning on him too much. That’s new for me.
The clock ticks over to ten. I type out a quick message.
Me: Thanks for tonight. You make things feel… lighter.
I stare at it for a beat, wondering if it’s too much, then hit Send before I can overthink it.
His reply comes before I can set the phone down.
Eli: Any time. Seriously. And if you need to talk about the Owen thing, I’m here. No logistics required.
I smile, just a little, in the quiet. Maybe I will. Maybe soon.
By morning, the text thread with Eli is buried under work emails and a reminder about Henry’s swimming gear, but I still open it before I head into the office. Just seeing his name there makes me smile like an idiot.
Work’s busy but not brutal. I’m well past the “new guy” phase now, which means less hand-holding and more actual tasks.
I like the people, the view from my desk when I’m in the office, and even the terrible instant coffee in the break room.
But by three o’clock, my brain’s already halfway to the school gate.
Henry’s outside the classroom with Noah, their heads together in what looks suspiciously like a handball strategy session. Ava’s perched on the bench next to them, swinging her legs and chattering to another girl.
Eli’s leaning on the fence, arms folded, sun catching in his hair. He spots me, and that slow, steady grin spreads across his face.
“Hey,” I say, stepping up beside him.
“Hey yourself. You okay?”
“Better now.” It’s out before I think, and he just tips his head like he’s clocked the truth of it.
We fall into easy conversation, watching the kids finish their game. It’s nothing special—talking about the weekend, a broken light in my kitchen he offers to fix, the rumour Mel heard about the principal taking up paddleboarding—but it’s warm. Comfortable.
When the kids finally notice us, Henry jogs over, flushed and grinning. “Dad, Noah says Eli’s taking him to the skate park tomorrow. Can we go too?”
I glance at Eli, and he shrugs. “Plenty of room.”
“Maybe,” I tell Henry. “We’ll see how homework goes tonight.”
The boys groan in unison and take off again.
Eli leans closer. “You heard from Owen yet?”
I nod. “Flights confirmed. He’ll be here in a couple of weeks.”
He doesn’t flinch or ask a hundred questions, just says, “Okay,” in a way that makes it clear he’s listening if I want to keep talking.
We walk out together, the kids leading, and for a moment, it’s easy to picture this as a regular thing—end of the day, heading home side by side, no big changes needed.
By the time we reach the cars, the sun’s dropping low, painting the edges of the clouds with gold. The kids are still mid-conversation—talking about a YouTube video and who’s better at ollies—and they barely glance up when we tell them to get in.
Eli rests a hand on the roof of my car, looking across at me. “If you need anything next weekend… just say the word.”
“I know,” I say, and I do. The weirdest part is how easy it feels to believe him.
He gives me one last look, steady and warm, as though he’s holding back a thought, but not in a bad way. Then I’m getting in my car as Eli starts walking in the opposite direction.
On the drive home, Henry chatters about Noah’s plans, the soccer highlights he watched this morning before school, a new kid in class. I throw in the right noises, but my brain’s elsewhere.
Somewhere between pick-up and home, it hits me. I’m not thinking about Owen’s visit in terms of me handling it. I’m thinking about how we will handle it—me and Eli, somehow, together.
And I can’t decide if that’s too soon or exactly where I want to be.