13. Athena
ATHENA
I’m not about to let him be Ivy’s father right now, when it’s clearly so convenient for him. I’ve done everything alone.
The thought runs hot and clean through my head while Nathan stands in my doorway like he owns the oxygen in the hallway. Ivy is behind me, half-asleep and suddenly alert, her small hands rubbing at her eyes while she stares at him with a fear she doesn’t know how to name.
I slide one step sideways, not to block her view completely, but to put myself between her and the unknown. My pulse stays steady on the outside, and my skin feels too thin on the inside.
“Baby,” I whisper, keeping my voice soft. “Go back to bed.”
Ivy doesn’t move.
Her gaze stays fixed on Nathan’s face, then drops to his hands, then returns to his eyes like she’s trying to figure out whether this man is a problem. She swallows, then presses her fingers against the doorframe.
“Who is this?” she murmurs, voice small and confused.
I close my eyes for half a second, then open them and keep my expression calm.
“Nobody who will hurt us,” I tell her quietly. “Right now you just need to go back to sleep.”
Nathan shifts at the threshold, not stepping in, not pushing, and I hate that the restraint makes him look better.
His attention moves to Ivy and it changes him, and the change is subtle, but it’s real.
The man who walked into my life like a crisis arrives with something controlled and careful in his face.
“Athena,” he says, voice low. “May I talk to her?”
My fingers tighten around the edge of the door without me meaning them to. “No,” I say, then pause, then correct myself with effort. “Not like that.”
Nathan doesn’t argue. He keeps his hands visible at his sides, palms open, like he understands what he looks like to a child waking up in the night.
“Just enough,” he says. “Just so she isn’t scared.”
I glance down at Ivy. Her eyes flick to me, wide and glossy, and she takes a shallow breath like she’s trying to be brave the way she is at the hospital when she comes with me on weekend volunteer days.
I hate that this is happening here. I hate that he showed up like this. Still, Ivy’s shoulders are drawn tight, and her fear is starting to turn into questions I don’t have answers for at midnight. I look back at Nathan.
“One sentence,” I say. “And you stay right there.”
Nathan nods once. “Understood.”
I shift slightly, angling my body enough that Ivy can see him clearly without feeling cornered. My hand stays on her shoulder, warm and steady, grounding her.
Nathan lowers himself a fraction, not kneeling, not performing, just adjusting his height so he isn’t towering. His voice comes out quiet, even, and careful.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he says. “You’re safe. I’m not here to hurt you or your mom.”
Ivy’s brows draw together as she studies him, then she swallows again. “Who are you?”
Nathan’s eyes flick toward me for permission, and my chest tightens. I don’t give him a name to use. I don’t give him the word that changes everything.
He keeps it simple.
“I’m someone your mom used to know,” he says. “And I came to talk to her for a minute.”
Ivy’s gaze shifts back to me. “Is he a bad guy?”
The question lands in my throat like a stone. I keep my voice level, then I squeeze her shoulder lightly. “No. He’s not.”
Nathan holds still, as if he understands that my answer is for Ivy, not for him. Ivy stares at him another beat, then her eyelids flutter with sleep fighting curiosity.
“Okay,” she whispers.
I brush my fingers through her curls and tilt my head toward her room.
“Back to bed,” I tell her. “I’ll check on you in a minute.”
Ivy hesitates then nods and shuffles away, dragging her feet like she wants to make sure she’s still part of this. She pauses at her doorway and looks back once, and I give her a small smile that says go, you’re safe, and I mean it.
She disappears into her room and the door clicks softly behind her.
The quiet that follows is immediate and thick. I turn back to Nathan and let the anger I’ve been holding settle into my face. My voice drops, not loud, not dramatic, just sharp enough to cut. “You don’t get to show up here.”
Nathan’s eyes stay on mine. “I already did.”
“That’s not an answer,” I snap. “That’s you doing what you want and calling it fate.”
His mouth tightens slightly, and he steps half a pace closer then stops himself at the line of my doorway. He looks like a man trying to hold control with both hands.
“I came for a conference,” he says. “I went to the park. I saw you.”
“And you followed me.” I tilt my head. “You watched where I live and decided that was normal.”
His gaze doesn’t move. “I decided I wasn’t losing you again.”
I laugh once, short and bitter. “That’s the thing, Nathan. You didn’t lose me. You dismissed me.”
His eyes darken.
“We had this conversation already,” I continue, “and you told me exactly what you think women do with children, then you sat across from me while I tried to hold myself together.”
Nathan’s expression hardens. “I was wrong.”
“Wrong,” I repeat, and my voice threatens to break, so I tighten it again. “That’s what you say now, after six years, after I did everything alone, after you slept fine in your clean house and I learned how to be two people at once.”
Nathan shifts his weight. The movement is restrained, like he wants to reach for me and knows he shouldn’t. “I didn’t sleep fine.”
I stare at him. “You don’t get credit for suffering in private,” I snap. “You don’t get to show up now and expect me to hand you my life.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “I’m not asking for your life.”
“What are you asking for?” I shoot back. “A role you can step into when it suits you. A child you can claim once she’s old enough to understand schedules and not messy enough to ruin your image.”
Nathan’s face goes still. “You think that’s why I’m here,” he says quietly.
“Yes,” I reply. “It’s convenient for you now. Ivy’s older. She’s smart. She’s easy to love. She isn’t a pregnancy test in a trash can.”
His gaze locks on mine. “You were pregnant,” he says, voice low. “Athena, I didn’t realize what you were trying to tell me, and that’s on me. But—”
My throat tightens. “Don’t,” I warn.
Nathan steps closer again. This time he stops just inside the threshold, still not touching me, still not pushing past the boundary I set. The restraint is the only reason I don’t slam the door in his face.
“You asked me about being a dad,” he says. “That night at dinner. You weren’t talking about theory.”
His gaze moves from my eyes to my mouth, to my hands, like he can’t figure out where to fix it. “I didn’t stop to think what you needed then. My mind reverted to my ex, Cindy, and refused to move from there.”
I flinch. His voice stays steady. “I was thinking about threats and HR and the board, and I was thinking about a woman who used my name like a weapon, and I said things you didn’t deserve.”
The tears are coming now, and maybe they’re from the burden of raising Ivy all by myself all these years.
Oh, I love her and I’d die for her, but that’s not the same as living for her.
It’s not the same as showing up everyday, through night after night of broken sleep.
I’ve run on empty for too long to take Nathan’s sympathy.
“I had to survive you once, Nathan,” I tell him, digging my nails into my palms to keep my face set. “I don’t want to do it again.”
Nathan’s mouth tightens, and his gaze drags briefly toward Ivy’s door before returning to me, like the presence of a child keeps him honest. “What happened?” he asks. “What made you do this?”
I laugh again, and it’s ugly. “You mean why did I run after I got threatened, got pushed out of my job, got told my baby might not live?” Each word is clipped. “You mean after I blocked you since I had no idea whether your world would crush me again if I stayed within reach.”
Nathan’s eyes go darker, and his voice drops. “You were threatened?” he says, voice thick with surprise. “Who did this?” He takes a step forward and I take two steps back immediately.
I shake my head. “No,” I reply. “You don’t get to interrogate me like I’m a case file.”
His gaze holds mine. “Athena.”
I lift a hand, palm out. “Stop saying my name like it’s a key,” I whisper. “You don’t get to unlock me with tone.”
Nathan’s face changes. For a second I see real anger, the kind that looks like control snapping tight around something violent. “You think I don’t get it,” he answers, and his voice has gone deeper. “You think I don’t understand what it did to you?”
“I think you showed me what you do under pressure,” I reply. “You go cold, you get cruel, and you call it honesty.”
Nathan takes another half-step and stops close enough that I can feel his presence, the heat of him, the weight of his attention. My body reacts on instinct, and I hate that too. I hate that my skin still remembers him.
“I’m here,” he says, voice rougher now. “I came to your door, and I asked permission to speak to her. I didn’t touch her. I didn’t step into your home. I stood where you told me to stand.”
“You want applause?” I snap.
“I want a chance,” he replies, and his words come out hard. “I want five minutes where you stop treating me like a stranger and tell me what you need.”
My laugh turns thin. “What I needed was six years ago.”
Nathan’s gaze drops to my mouth for half a second, then returns to my eyes, and the look in him turns dangerous. “Say it.”
I stare at him. “Say what.”
“Say you don’t want me,” he replies. “Say you’re done. Say you feel nothing, and I’ll walk away.”
My skin feels too hot. “This isn’t a courtroom.”
“No,” he answers, eyes swirling the heart of a cyclone. “It’s my life, and you’re standing in it again.”
The words shake something loose in me, and I feel the guilt creep in, the part that whispers I should’ve told him, I should’ve trusted him, I should’ve given him the truth even when he failed me. I crush that part down fast.
“I don’t trust you,” I say.