22. Nora #2
“I know.” My throat tightens slightly. “I just…didn’t realize how isolated he’d gotten before this.”
Stryker leans back against the bench beside me while watching the playground. “Kids adapt fast when they feel safe.”
Something about the way he says safe makes my stomach twist faintly. Because Paxton does feel safe around them. So do I. That realization remains deeply unsettling.
An hour later the playground gets louder as more families arrive. Too many children screaming. Too much movement all at once. I notice Paxton starting to drift toward the edges of the activity before I even fully process why.
Except apparently Stryker notices first.
“He’s getting overloaded.”
I look over immediately.
Paxton’s movements have gotten sharper now, less focused. His hands flap once briefly near his sides while he scans the playground too quickly.
“Oh.”
Stryker is already standing.
By the time I reach them, he’s crouched near Paxton calmly holding out the water bottle from his bag while Lena waits nearby looking concerned.
Stryker signs slowly for him to take a break, and Paxton hesitates before finally nodding.
There are no tears or meltdowns, just calm redirection before he gets pushed too far emotionally.
I stop short beside them, unexpectedly affected by the entire interaction because Stryker handles it exactly the way I would have—steady, patient, and completely without judgment.
Paxton drinks water while leaning lightly against Stryker’s knee for balance, and something inside my chest shifts painfully at the sight. Trust. Pure uncomplicated trust.
The rest of the afternoon passes softer after that.
The kids eventually settle into quieter games near the sandbox while Stryker and I sit nearby sharing fries from the concession stand because apparently he also packed insufficient lunch for himself despite planning like a survivalist for the children.
“You do this naturally,” I say eventually.
He glances over. “Do what?”
“The dad thing.”
Stryker looks back toward Lena immediately.
For a second something more complicated moves quietly across his face.
“I didn’t at first,” he admits. “Lena showed up and I figured most of it out by screwing up repeatedly.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“It shouldn’t be.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “I had no idea what I was doing.”
“But you do now.”
“Better anyway.”
I watch him watching Lena for another second before asking quietly, “How old was she when you got custody?”
“Last year. She had just turned seven.” Stryker rubs one hand slowly against the back of his neck before continuing.
“Her mother wasn’t stable and I didn’t know she existed until last year when she dropped her at my doorstep with no other word.
I was only supposed to keep her for two months, but there was no way my child was going anywhere after I met her. ”
The blunt honesty of that hits harder than some dramatic explanation would have.
“I’m sorry for all that you both went through with that.”
He shrugs once. “Lena’s alright.”
And somehow that simple answer tells me almost everything I need to know about him. He doesn’t focus on what hurt him. He focuses on what benefits his child.
Later, while the kids race each other across the grass despite both clearly cheating, Stryker asks practical questions about my work schedule and the house renovations. Unlike Viper’s emotionally probing conversations or Blade’s quieter observations, talking to Stryker feels oddly stabilizing.
He asks questions because he genuinely wants solutions.
“How’s the back bathroom plumbing now?”
“Mostly fixed.”
“Mostly?”
“One sink still hates me.”
“I’ll come look at it tomorrow.”
“You absolutely do not need to keep fixing my house.”
“I know.”
“That response is infuriating.”
“I know that two.”
I laugh despite myself. That seems to satisfy him. The moment that really ruins me happens completely be accident.
Paxton trips while running near the basketball court. I’m already moving before he fully hits the ground. Except Stryker gets there first. He crouches beside Paxton immediately, one hand steady at his back while signing carefully with the other.
Look at me. Paxton’s face crumples briefly, from shock more than pain. Stryker keeps signing calmly. You are okay.
I kneel beside them seconds later while checking his hands automatically. Red scrapes across both palms. Tiny bits of gravel. Nothing serious.
But Paxton’s breathing is already steadying before tears properly start, because Stryker interrupted the panic spiral immediately.
Hurts, Paxton signs sadly.
I know, I answer while brushing dirt carefully from his hands. We will clean them when we get home.
Stryker pulls wipes from the endless survival backpack without a word. Of course he has those.
Paxton leans briefly against Stryker’s shoulder while I clean the scrapes and something about that image lodges itself painfully beneath my ribs. My son trusts this man instinctively.
By the time we finally head home, both kids are exhausted and sun-warm from hours outside. Lena falls asleep in the backseat of the SUV halfway through the drive while Paxton signs nonstop from his booster seat in my Subaru about slides and races and how Lena cheats at tag.
She touched the tree after me but said she won anyway.
I laugh quietly while signing back one-handed at a stoplight. That sounds suspicious.
I think maybe she changes rules.
Probably.
When we pull into my driveway the late afternoon sun has started turning gold across the yard. Paxton immediately jumps out carrying three random rocks he apparently decided were treasures while Lena sleepily trails behind Stryker toward the porch.
Inside the house the kids settle automatically onto the living room floor with crayons while Stryker helps me unload leftover snacks from the cars.
“You didn’t have to stay,” I tell him quietly near the kitchen counter.
“I know.”
Again with that answer.
I lean back against the counter watching him move around my kitchen like he belongs there. Big hands. Calm movements. Constant awareness of the children’s voices and movements even while unpacking juice boxes.
This is getting dangerously domestic.
Stryker glances over eventually. “You’re thinking too loud.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means your face gives you away.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
His mouth twitches slightly. Then silence settles between us again.
I can feel the shift now more sharply after sleeping with Blade and Viper.
Every interaction with Stryker feels balanced on the edge of something inevitable.
Nothing physical happens between us, but somehow that almost makes it worse.
Because restraint from him feels intentional and controlled, like he could cross the distance between us anytime he decided to.
That thought should probably scare me more than it does.
Instead it makes me warm all over in ways I don’t want to examine too closely.