I hadn’t been back in a while. When he opened the door, I hugged him tight and said, “Happy stepFather’s Day.” He smiled, a little unsure. He asked where my husband was. “Home with the baby,” I said. “I needed some space.” Then I asked about stepMom. “She’s away for work,” he said. Just the two of us. We sat on the couch. I leaned in close, let my fingers brush his arm. He looked at me, confused. “What are you doing?” he asked. “I missed you,” I said. “More than I should.” He hesitated. “You’re married,” he said. “This isn’t right.” But I reminded him of last time. Of what happened. Of what it meant to me. He didn’t want to go there. But I did. I needed to feel something real. Something familiar. He paused. Then gave in. It was quiet. Intense. Like picking up a thread we never really let go. After, I touched his hand and said, “Happy stepFather’s Day.”