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But I didn’t. Because I knew better.

My father had women over the years. Quiet, careful ones. None of them stuck. None of them could touch what he had with my mother—even after everything that went down between them. She had betrayed him, and he’d never fully recovered. Not really. Mena and I knew that and felt it.

So I stayed put. Called out instead.

“Yo, Dad!”

For a moment, the music kept playing. Then I heard giggling. Light. Familiar. The music stopped. And then—footsteps.

He appeared at the top of the stairs, robe open over a bare chest and silk boxers. His skin gleamed with a fresh sheen, beard lined, eyes still low-lidded like he wasn’t quite done with whatever was going on upstairs.

“Everything okay?” he asked, voice rough.

I raised a brow. “Yeah. Just wanted to talk.”

“You picked a hell of a time.”

Behind him, my mother emerged.

She wore a baby-pink babydoll gown, satin clinging to curves she’d never apologized for. Robe hanging open like she forgot—or didn’t care—to tie it. Her honey-brown hair was a mess, falling around her shoulders in thick, loose curls. Lipstick smudged. Cheeks flushed.

She met my eyes and gave a satisfied, sleepy smile. "Hey, baby," she said, voice husky and unbothered. "Didn’t know you were stopping by."

I nodded slowly. "Didn’t exactly plan it."

She laughed under her breath. "Still your daddy’s son. Always popping up when it counts."

Then, without waiting for more, she turned and drifted back down the hallway.

Dad ran a hand over his face. The face like I stole. Same skin tone, eyes, lips, just older. “Give me a minute, Raj.”

I nodded and turned for the study, trying to avoid feeling sick about walking in on them being…grown.

Fifteen minutes later, he walked in dressed in charcoal lounge pants and a dark tee, barefoot but pulled together. He looked more like himself. Less like a man I’d just caught mid-tryst.

He didn’t say anything about what I’d seen. Neither did I. But as I sat there, waiting, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

About them. About how strange it was to see them in the same space again. Together. Laughing. Touching.

Divorce doesn’t end with signatures. It lingers. In the quiet. In the way you watch your parents become strangers. In the questions you stop asking because the answers hurt more than silence.

For a long time, I carried the distance between them like it was mine to manage. And now… they were back under the same roof. Acting like it hadn’t taken years to get here.

I didn’t know what that meant. But I knew it mattered.

He settled into his usual leather chair, glass of bourbon already in hand.

“Still let yourself in like you pay the bills,” he said, sipping once before nodding to the seat across from him.

I sat.

He watched me over the rim of his glass. “What’s up?”

“I met with Sienna Ray tonight.”

I came to him because I always did when something sat heavy in my chest. When I needed clarity I couldn’t find on my own. My father wasn’t the kind to meddle, but he understood women. Understood power, timing, the stuff people didn’t say out loud. And when he gave advice, it hit. Always had.

His brows lifted. “Already?”