Recaptured Heart

The sky outside my office burned orange, the city below moving on in its endless, indifferent rhythm. I barely noticed. My eyes skimmed the report on my tablet, but none of the words stuck. My focus was thin these days. Restless.

Then my phone vibrated against the polished glass of my desk.

Victoria.

I stared at the name on the screen, jaw flexing.

Of course. She never called unless she had something up her sleeve. Which meant whatever this was, she'd already convinced herself it mattered.

I answered, keeping my voice cold.

"What?"

Her tone was light, too polished to be genuine.

"Well, hello to you too. You sound thrilled."

"Don't start mom. What do you want?" I snapped.

I didn't have the time or patience for one of her games. Not today.

There was a pause, the sound of her amusement so thick i could almost see her smug smile.

"I just came from the superstore. You'll never guess who I saw."

I didn't respond. I didn't need to. The silence was enough for her to take the stage.

"Sandra. Looking very... domestic."

My grip on the phone tightened. Of course she'd bring her up. She always knew exactly where to poke.

"So?"

"So?" she repeated, with a soft laugh that made his skin crawl.

"She had a cart half-full of kids' items. Cold medicine for children, gummy vitamins, even cartoon-themed cereal."

I leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly through his nose.

"Maybe she's babysitting."

"Mmhmm. Or maybe she has a kid"

The suggestion dropped like a pin into a silent room. My mind tried not to catch on it, but it did-just for a flicker of a second.

I shut it down.

"She probably remarried. Or they could be her niece or nephew. You don't know anything."

But Victoria always thought she did. And she always made sure you started to doubt yourself, even when you knew better.

"Oh, but don't I?" Her voice shifted, sliding into that cool, analytical tone he remembered too well.

"There was something about her, Andre. She looked... flustered. Like someone trying to juggle more than groceries. And she didn't even notice me until she bumped into me. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she was hiding something."

I felt it then-that old, buried panic trying to stir. I shut his eyes, clenched his jaw.

"You don't know any better. That's the problem."

"Why are you so quick to defend her?"

Because you broke her, i thought. Because she never deserved what we did to her.

But i didn't say any of that.

"Because you've been obsessed with controlling everything around me-including her-since day one. Leave her alone, Mother."

Her reply came quickly, too easily.

"I didn't say a word to her. I just watched. That's all."

"Good. Keep it that way."

Then her voice shifted again, quiet but cutting.

"If she has a child... and if he is yours-"

"Enough! Drop it." The words came sharp, final. But they rang a little too loudly in my own ears.

"You always did have a blind spot where she was concerned."

"And you always had a habit of digging where you weren't welcome."

She exhaled like she was done playing polite.

"Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you. Women like her don't stay quiet forever."

"Goodbye, Victoria."

I hung up without waiting for her next word. The silence afterward seemed louder than before.

I stared at the phone, my thoughts stuck somewhere between the past and the uncomfortable whisper of a possibility he couldn't afford to entertain.

A child?

No.

She would've told me. Wouldn't she?

I shoved the thought down, deep. Just like i always did.

But even as I turned back to my tablet, the image of Sandra pushing a cart-her eyes tired, her movements distracted-clung to me like smoke.

And it didn't go away.

I stepped into the hospital room

I adjusted the strap of the tote on my shoulder, the weight of it more symbolic than heavy. Diapers, wipes, a bottle warmer, a blanket soft enough that even I ran my hand across it twice before packing it. Not because I had to. Because it mattered. In my other hand, a thermal bag with food that didn't taste like it had been reheated in hell.

Michael turned when I walked in. He looked like he hadn't slept in days - which he probably hadn't - but there was something different in his eyes. Lighter. Softer. And when he smiled, I saw it. The kind of pride you don't fake.

"Took your time," he said.

I gave him a look, deadpan as ever.

"Traffic was a nightmare."

I didn't mention the nurse who tried to shove a clipboard in my hand, assuming I was a delivery guy. Not important. Maybe I should just buy this hospital and have her fired. That wouldn't be so bad after all.

He laughed. Not the polite kind. The real kind. And just like that, the tightness in my chest eased a little.

Then I saw her again.

Swaddled like the world hadn't touched her yet. Her name was Trinity - and somehow, it fit. She was small. There was something about her even in stillness - a presence. I took a slow step closer, eyes locked on her face, those impossible little hands. And for a brief second... everything inside me went still.

I remembered holding her for the first time. The feeling was surreal. And I remembered everything that came after. That ache never left - it just learned how to hide.

Michael's wife - Anna - offered me a tired smile.

"Thank you, Andre."

I gave her a nod. Nothing more needed. I placed the bags down beside the chair.

"There's food. Real food," I said, keeping my voice even. "And a few things you probably forgot to pack."

Michael glanced at the tote, then at me. I could see it - the words he didn't say. I knew that look. I'd worn it too many times myself.

"You're always ten steps ahead."

I let the corner of my mouth tilt.

"Someone has to be."

We stood there, shoulder to shoulder, looking down at Trinity like she was something ancient and new all at once. He was still trying to process it all - the gravity of becoming a father. I could feel it in the way he stood, the weight in his eyes.

I turned to him. "So. What do you need? A ride home? Help with paperwork? Say the word."

He didn't answer right away. Just looked at me like I'd offered more than a favor. Like I understood. Because I did.

"Right now?" he said softly. "Just a moment to breathe."

I nodded once. No speeches. No big gestures. Just sat down, crossing one ankle over my knee.

"Then breathe," I told him. "I'll hold the line."

Because sometimes, being there meant saying nothing at all. Just showing up. Just staying.

Not as a CEO.

Not as the guy who always fixes everything.

Just as a man. A friend. A brother.

And that was enough.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✿ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

It was late. The house had gone still.

I sat on Michael's couch with a half-empty glass of whiskey in my hand, staring at a muted television I wasn't really watching. Some old rerun flickered across the screen, colors moving without sound, without meaning.

Michael walked back in from the kitchen, rustling a bag of chips. He dropped down beside me and started eating like he hadn't just survived days straight days of sleep deprivation and hospital food.

"You're still here," he said around a mouthful. "Thought you'd do your usual ghost-exit two hours ago."

I lifted the glass to my lips. "Thought about it. Couch isn't half bad. And your whiskey's older than I expected."

He raised the chip bag like it was a toast. "Hospital runs and late-night man talk. Who are we?"

I gave a quiet laugh, but didn't say anything right away. I just sat there, ice clinking in my glass, swirling around something I hadn't planned to say - not tonight. Maybe not ever.

But it came out anyway.

"You remember that bakery we stopped at a few weeks ago?"

Michael nodded. "Yeah. The one where you helped buy the things Anna wanted."

I shifted, the couch suddenly too soft beneath me. "There was a boy. In that bakery."

Michael looked over, still chewing. "Okay..."

The memory had been sitting in the back of my mind like a shadow I couldn't shake. I hadn't told anyone. Not even myself, really.

"He looked exactly like me," I said, my voice quieter now. "Like - me. At that age. It wasn't just a resemblance. Same eyes. Same build. Same damn way of standing. Like he knew how to disappear in plain sight. Watching everyone, saying nothing."

Michael blinked, put the chip bag down, and leaned forward, like I'd just told him I saw a ghost.

"Hold on. Are you seriously telling me you think you might have a mystery son running around?"

I gave him a flat look. "I didn't say he was my son."

"But you thought it. Don't lie."

I didn't answer. What would've been the point?

Michael leaned back like he was getting ready for the best comedy show of the year. Grinning like a fool.

"Oh my God. This is amazing. Andre Dawson - Father of the Forgotten Child."

I groaned and rubbed a hand over my face. "Forget I said anything."

"No, no, no. This is gold. Do I get to be the godfather to your secret bakery baby? Do we search for his mother next? Should we hire a PI? Or just post a 'Missing: Dramatic Childhood' flier in that cinnamon bun shop?"

I shot him a look that could've incinerated a lesser man. Michael just laughed harder.

"You're impossible."

"And you're spiraling."

He nudged me with his elbow, like he was being gentle. Like he knew there was something underneath it all.

"Look, maybe it was a coincidence," he said. "Or maybe your brain's just trying to tell you something else."

I turned to him. "Like what?"

He shrugged. "Like you're not done dealing with whatever's still unfinished. Regret has a weird way of putting familiar faces in random crowds."

That hit harder than I wanted to admit. I looked out the window, the dark glass reflecting nothing but questions. That boy had been gone in seconds, but the way I'd felt when I saw him - it hadn't gone anywhere.

Michael picked up the remote and unmuted the TV.

"Anyway," he said, casually, "if you do have a secret kid out there, let me know now. I've got jokes I've been saving for years."

I let out a breath and finally smirked.

"Noted."

We sat there in silence as the show played in the background - two men with too many thoughts and too little sleep. I didn't say anything else.

But I was glad I'd told him.

Even if he laughed.

Because something in me needed to say it out loud. To name the thought before it took root in silence.

And for once, I didn't regret it.

Not this time.