Page 50 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

I knit my brows together. “Used how?”

His gaze turns flat, clinical, and it scares me more than anger would. “Women use children to keep a man in place. They use them to get money, attention, compliance, and they call it love when it’s really control.”

My fingers curl against the edge of my napkin. I keep my expression steady, but my eyes sting.

“That’s not fair,” I manage.

“It’s accurate,” he replies, and the certainty in his voice makes my stomach turn. “I’ve seen it happen. I’ve lived it. I’m not doing it again.”

Again.

The word lands and sits there. I try to swallow and my throat refuses to cooperate. “You’re talking about Nate’s mother,” I say quietly.

Nathan’s gaze hardens. “I’m talking about a pattern. I’m talking about people who smile while they set traps, then pretend you’re a monster when you refuse to step into them.”

I stare at him and feel my face heat, then cool, then heat again. The cruelty isn’t in volume. It’s in how final he sounds, in how easily he can make women the villain in a story where he’s the victim.

I take a slow breath and try to keep my voice from shaking. “What if it was the right person,” I ask. “What if it wasn’t a trap.”

Nathan’s eyes lift, sharp and direct. “Athena.” My name comes out as a warning. “Be clear about what you’re saying.”

I grip my water glass harder. “I’m asking a question.”

He leans forward slightly, forearms on the table now, attention locked. “Is something wrong?” he asks. “Are you telling me something.”

My heart bangs once, hard. My mouth opens and closes without sound. My brain throws images at me in rapid order. The test. The word. Nate’s threat. Nathan’s hands last night. Nathan’s face right now, closed off and cold.

He’s supposed to be safe.

He feels safe.

And now he’s telling me he doesn’t want to be a father and he thinks women use children as leverage.

I shake my head, too fast. “No,” I say, and I hate myself for it. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Nathan doesn’t look convinced. “You’re on the pill, right?”

“Yes,” I reply, then flinch internally at the word.

His eyes narrow slightly as he watches me. “Then what is this?”

I force myself to breathe evenly and keep my gaze on his. “I’ve been thinking about life,” I say, and it sounds pathetic the moment it leaves my mouth. “About what people want. About what happens when things change.”

Nathan sits back a fraction, and the edge in his expression doesn’t soften. “I’m going to be very clear. I don’t want to be a dad.”

The words hit so hard that my eyes water immediately. I blink and look down at my napkin before he can see the full reaction, then I press my fingertips to the table to keep my hands from shaking.

Nathan watches me in silence. He doesn’t reach across the table or touch me.

He just sits there with that controlled, ruthless honesty, and for the first time all day I don’t know what to do with my own body.

Dinner arrives in courses that taste like nothing.

Nathan eats with the same measured focus he brings to surgery, cutting his steak neatly, wiping his mouth once with the napkin, speaking only when required to answer the waiter. I move food around my plate and take a few bites so it looks like effort, then I sip water to keep my throat from closing.

We don’t circle back.

He doesn’t soften his earlier statement or offer context. I don’t press, and I don’t confess. The table between us fills with everything we don’t say, and it makes the restaurant feel louder than it is.