The small, cold key sits in my pocket. It’s weight is small, yet it feels heavy against my thigh. I’ve been carrying it for a few days, waiting for the right moment.
It’s hard to know when that is.
Between a busy work schedule, my boy getting over a cold, and my own nerves, I’ve found more than one reason to push my question back. Really, it’s not a question at all.
Konnor dances around the living room in his pajamas with a blanket tied around his neck. He claims he’s a superhero who can sing to save the day. Far be it from me to question his beliefs.
Saturday afternoon sunlight pours over him, adding to the majestic nature he always seems to possess. The dinosaur-print footie pajamas I bought him last month contrast perfectly with his skin as well.
He’s the picture of happiness.
And I’m the lucky Daddy who gets to watch it. This is the point in time I want to freeze. This peace. This balance.
If only it could be an everyday thing.
After months of dating, I’ve decided it’s time to officially ask Konnor to move in. Sure, he’s got a toothbrush here, and he spends most nights tucked to my side. His favorite spicy ramen packs are in my cupboard, along with a growing battalion of plushies that have taken over the couch.
But his official address, the place he retreats to do laundry or when he needs “big boy space,” is a twenty-minute drive away. An apartment he can barely afford, filled with half a life since so much of his is here now.
It’s time.
I miss him the moment he leaves. I find myself listening for a text to say he’s on his way even on nights he won’t be here. I want the boring stuff. I want to be the one to make him smile when he’s exhausted. To be there during every high and low.
More than that, I want him to feel secure. To know, in his bones, that this is his home. That I am his home.
The plan is simple. It can’t be a big public gesture. That would terrify him. It needs to be here, in our sanctuary, but still just as special as something more.
I’ve made his favorite dinner—my grandmother’s lasagna with the spicy sausage he loves. A bottle of apple juice is chilling in the fridge for us to drink out of the fancy glasses he insisted on buying.
I take a steadying breath. “Hey, pretty boy.”
He looks over, body still moving to the upbeat tempo playing from his phone. A smile spreads across his face, making the room even brighter than before.
“Hey, Daddy. You’re looking at me funny. Do I have chocolate on my face?” He rubs his nose dramatically, a gesture sohimI grin even wider.
“Not this time,” I chuckle, walking over. I bend down and kiss his forehead. “Dinner’s almost ready. Will you set out the nice plates?”
His eyes widen a fraction. The “nice plates” are for birthdays or big friend parties. “What’s the occasion?”
“Do I need an occasion to spoil my boy?” I reply, hopeful to distract him even as my heart pounds against my ribs.
He narrows his eyes playfully but bounces over to the kitchen to do as asked. I watch him move with that familiar, loose-limbed grace. He hums along with the music still playing as he works.
I manage to pull away from staring at him to get the food from the oven. The cheesy-coated meal brings a squeal of joy from him when I set it on the table.
Dinner is a quiet, happy affair. He chatters about a funny video he saw online and the latest gossip from the club. Then I get a lesson in how the lasagna noodles are “the perfect level of squishy” so I can replicate it for next time.
“I have a surprise for you,” I say as we clear the plates.
“Pudding?” he asks, eyes lighting up in a hopeful way.
“Better than pudding. Close your eyes.”
“Daddy…” He drags out the word.
“Close them. And no peeking.” I adopt the firm-but-fond tone that always makes him comply.
He obeys, squeezing his eyes shut with exaggerated effort. His long lashes lay against his cheeks, distracting me for a moment. I take his hand and lead him back to the living room.
