A long silence.
“What happens now?” he asked.
She watched the rain bead off the curb. “Now we go one day at a time.”
He smiled faintly. “You keep saying that.”
“Because you’re the kind of man who used to think in five-year strategies.”
“And now?”
“Now you need to think like a parent.” She glanced up at him. “Daily. Repetitive. Boring. Faithful.”
It should not have sounded beautiful. It did.
The months that followed were not cinematic.
That mattered.
There were no giant speeches in the rain. No dramatic airport chases. No convenient amnesia. There was only work.
Justin showed up.
He showed up for breakfast at Zara’s brownstone after Prince had a nightmare and only wanted both adults in the room. He showed up for pediatric checkups, where he learned Prince hated tongue depressors and loved stickers shaped like planets. He showed up at library story hours, playground swings, messy spaghetti dinners, and one stomach-virus weekend that stripped every last ounce of glamour from co-parenting and left all three adults looking haunted.
Zara watched him the way people watched bridges after a collapse. Not hoping for failure, but unable to trust strength until time proved it.
Justin accepted that.
If Prince asked him to build block towers, he built them. If Zara said no sugar after six, he backed her without negotiation. If she needed space, he gave it. If she needed backup, he arrived.
Slowly, Prince’s language shifted.
