At the house, Noah stopped at the doorway.
“You can come in,” Oliver urged.
Slowly, cautiously, Noah stepped inside.
Like he expected someone to tell him it was a mistake.
Ethan closed the door behind them. The sound felt final.
Upstairs, he stared at his reflection.
Ten years ago, he chose not to search.
Not to question.
Because it was easier.
Now that decision was standing in his living room.
Breathing.
Waiting.
When he came back down, the boys were sitting on the floor, drawing together.
“What is it?” Ethan asked.
“A house,” Oliver said. “With two rooms. One for me, one for Noah.”
Noah didn’t look up—but his hand paused.
Ethan felt it.
That pause was a question.
A quiet one.
But impossible to ignore.
He stepped closer.
“Noah,” he said gently.
The boy looked up.
Same eyes.
Same weight behind them.
Ethan swallowed.
“There’s a chance… I might be your father.”
Silence filled the room.
Heavy. Unavoidable.
Oliver blinked, confused.
Noah didn’t move—but something in his eyes shifted.
“You don’t have to believe me,” Ethan added. “I don’t have proof yet. But I won’t lie to you.”
Noah stood slowly.
“If that’s true… why weren’t you there?”
No anger.
Just truth.
Ethan didn’t look away.
“I didn’t know.”