Chapter 7

Cedar's POV

I stood at the bottom of my apartment building, staring up at the familiar chipped brick and weathered fire escape. The emotional whiplash of the evening had left me drained. It was only when I reached for my keys that a realization hit me with startling force.

Oliver. The little boy was still in my apartment, probably wondering where I'd gone.

"Oh god," I whispered, hastily wiping away the remnants of tears from my cheeks. I hadn't told him I'd be out late. What kind of person forgets about a child in their care?

I took a deep breath, forcing my expression into something resembling normalcy. The last thing that boy needed was to see me fall apart. I climbed the four flights quickly, my heels echoing in the stairwell, and unlocked my door with shaking hands.

"Oliver?" I called softly as I stepped inside.

The sight that greeted me was unexpected. Instead of chaos, my small apartment was immaculate—neater than when I'd left it this morning. The throw pillows were arranged with geometric precision on the sofa, and magazines were stacked neatly on the coffee table. And there, perched on the edge of the couch watching cartoons with the volume turned low, was Oliver.

When he saw me, his entire face lit up. He scrambled off the sofa and ran toward me, arms outstretched, colliding with my legs in a fierce hug.

"You're home!" he exclaimed, his voice muffled against my skirt. "I was starting to worry."

I knelt down to his level, searching his face. "I'm so sorry I didn't call. I should have let you know I'd be late."

He shrugged with a maturity that continued to surprise me. "It's okay. I ate dinner and cleaned up a little. I didn't know when you'd be back, but I wanted everything to look nice." He pointed toward the kitchen. "There's food for you on the table. I covered it with another plate to keep it warm."

I followed his gesture and saw a plate waiting on my small dining table, meticulously set with a fork and knife on a folded paper towel. Something twisted in my chest—a feeling so unfamiliar it took me a moment to recognize it.

"You were worried about me?" I asked, unable to keep the wonder from my voice.

"Of course," he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I didn't have your phone number, so I just watched TV and waited." His small hand found mine. "Are you hungry? I can heat it up more if it's cold now."

I couldn't remember the last time someone had waited for me to come home. In the Wright household, my comings and goings had never warranted attention unless I was late for an obligation. The simple act of being expected, being missed, created a warmth that spread through my chest, temporarily displacing the night's earlier hurt.

"That would be nice," I managed, my voice catching slightly.

I watched as Oliver moved with purpose to the kitchen, dragging a step stool to the microwave. His little hands worked with careful determination and pressed buttons. The domesticity of the moment struck me—this child I'd known for just two days, creating a sense of home I'd never quite experienced.

While the microwave hummed, Oliver chatted about his day—how he'd explored the bookshelf, discovered my design magazines, and attempted to organize my colored pencils by the spectrum. I sat at the table, nodding and responding, but part of me remained caught in wonderment at the strangeness of it all.

"Here you go," he announced proudly, setting the reheated plate before me. He climbed onto the chair opposite, resting his chin in his hands to watch me eat.

"Aren't you going to have some?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I already ate. But I'll keep you company."

And he did, filling the silence with innocent observations about my apartment, asking questions about my work, and occasionally stealing a green bean from my plate with a mischievous grin. By the time dinner was finished, the weight of the evening had lightened considerably.

Bath time followed, with Oliver splashing happily while I washed his hair, careful not to get soap in his eyes. As I helped him into his borrowed t-shirt—one of mine that hung to his knees—I was struck by how natural this felt, as if we'd been doing this routine for years rather than days.

Reading him a bedtime story, I watched his eyelids grow heavy, his small body curled trustingly against mine on the sofa bed I'd prepared. When his breathing finally evened into sleep, I gently extricated myself and stood watching him.

In sleep, the resemblance between us seemed even more pronounced—the same wave in our hair, the curve of our cheeks. If he truly were my son, how would that be possible? I'd never been pregnant, never given birth. Yet something about him called to a part of me I hadn't known existed.

I tucked the blanket more securely around his shoulders, my fingers lingering on the soft cotton. How strange that this child—this little stranger who had appeared so suddenly in my life—had created the first sense of being truly needed that I could remember. With the Wrights, I was valuable for what I could provide. With Oliver, I was simply wanted.

As I dimmed the lights and retreated to my own bedroom, a bittersweet thought followed me: what if he really could be mine? What if this accidental family we were playing at could somehow be real?

But that was impossible. Wasn't it?