"How's it feeling?" I ask, nodding toward her ankle as I button my shirt.
"Better," she says, pulling her sweater over her head. "The pain medication helped a lot."
I check my watch, just over forty-five minutes before we need to get Tommy. "I should change your ice pack before we go pick up your son."
Sarah looks at me, a small furrow appearing between her brows. "You still want to come with me? To get Tommy?"
"Of course." The answer comes automatically, without hesitation. "Unless you'd rather I didn't."
She shakes her head quickly. "No, it's not that. I just... this is all happening very fast. This morning I woke up alone, like I have for the past five years. Now you're in my bed, planning to pick upmy son from school, talking about staying in our lives." She runs a hand through her tousled hair. "It's a lot to process."
I understand her concern. This is all moving at a pace that would be inadvisable in any normal situation. But there's nothing normal about how we met, nothing standard about the connection that's formed between us. Still, I need to respect her boundaries, especially where Tommy is concerned.
"We can slow down," I offer. "Take it day by day."
"No, I don't think we can. Not really. Not when Tommy's already met you, not when you've already saved us, not when I've already..." She gestures toward the rumpled bed. "I think we're past the point of conventional timing. I just need to know you understand what you're getting into—a package deal, complications and all."
"I understand," I assure her, crossing the room to stand before her. "And I meant what I said. I'm not going anywhere."
She reaches up, her hand coming to rest against my cheek.
"Then let's go get my son," she says.
I help her to the bathroom so she can freshen up, then retrieve a fresh ice pack from the kitchen while she's occupied. When she emerges, her hair is neatly tied back again, her face washed clean.
"Ready?" I ask, offering her my arm.
She takes it, leaning on me as we make our way out of the apartment. The stairs are still a challenge with her injured ankle, but she manages better than earlier, wincing only slightly with each step down. In the car, she sits quietly beside me, her hands folded in her lap. I can almost see the thoughts racing behind her eyes—concerns, hopes, practical considerations about what happens next.
"Are you sure about this?" I ask as I start the engine. "About me picking up Tommy with you? It's not too late to change your mind."
Sarah turns to look at me, her expression resolute. "I'm sure. Tommy already likes you. And I..." She pauses, choosing her words. "I trust my instincts. They're telling me to trust you."
The drive to Tommy's school is short. I park in the pickup lane, noting the curious glances from other parents as I help Sarah from the car. Most of them clearly recognize her, but not me. A stranger in their midst, supporting the single mother they're used to seeing struggle alone.
We wait near the entrance, Sarah leaning slightly against me, my hand at her back. When the dismissal bell rings, children pour out of the building in a chaotic stream of backpacks and excited chatter. Tommy spots us immediately, his face lighting up with surprised delight when he sees me standing beside his mother.
"Franco!" he shouts, racing toward us with a speed that makes me momentarily concerned he'll fall. "You came back!"
He crashes into my legs, arms wrapping around my knees in an enthusiastic hug that catches me completely off guard. I freeze for a moment, unprepared for this unrestrained show of affection, before awkwardly patting his back.
"Hi, Tommy," I say, my voice rougher than intended.
He tilts his head back to look up at me, beaming. "Are you helping Mom again? Is her ankle still hurt?"
"Yes to both questions," Sarah answers, ruffling his hair. "How was school, baby?"
"Good! I got a gold star on my drawing. And Jake said his dad has a Ferrari but I told him your friend Franco has a way coolercar." He looks up at me again. "Can we ride in your car again? Please?"
"That's the plan," I tell him, surprised by how easily I'm falling into conversation with this child. "Your mom's ankle still hurts, so I'm driving you both home."
Tommy punches the air in celebration, then grabs my hand without hesitation, his small fingers wrapping around my much larger ones. "Come on! I want to show Mom my drawing before she puts it on the fridge!"
I glance at Sarah, finding her watching us with a smile. She nods slightly, giving me permission to lead her son to the car. I help Tommy into his seat in the back, then assist Sarah into the passenger side before taking my place behind the wheel.
As I pull away from the school, Tommy launches into a detailed account of his day, jumping from topic to topic with the effortless energy of a five-year-old. I listen more attentively than I've listened to most intelligence briefings, noting the names of his friends, his teacher, the subjects he enjoys and the ones he finds boring.
"Franco," he says suddenly, his tone shifting to something more serious. "Are you Mom's boyfriend now?"
