Not much.
Enough.
He began eating lunch occasionally instead of surviving on coffee.
The Woman noticed.
Never mentioned it.
One Friday, she did not return at one.
1:15.
Nothing.
1:30.
Nothing.
At 1:52, the Single Dad received a text from a number he did not recognize.
Family situation. Running late. I’ll make up the time.
He looked at the screen.
Typed:
Don’t worry about the time. Is everything okay?
He hesitated.
Sent it.
No response until nearly four.
Then:
It will be.
The Single Dad read the three words.
He knew them.
It will be was not it is.
It meant the problem still had teeth.
He closed the shop himself.
The Woman did not return.
That night, he lay awake longer than usual.
Not because the shop needed her.
Because she might be hurting.
The distinction bothered him.
Monday, she arrived at 7:58.
Two coffees.
Composed.
Professional.
Friday review began as usual.
Invoices.
Parts.
Appointments.
Then the Single Dad closed his legal pad.
The Woman looked up.
“What?”
“I’m glad you came back.”
A pause.
“To work?”
“No.”
He shifted.
“The first Monday.”
“The one after I nearly made you leave.”
Her expression changed slightly.
“That was months ago.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Dangerous.”
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“You walked into the worst version of me.”
The Woman waited.
“I’m trying to figure out whether I’ve shown you a better one since.”
Silence.
She looked down at the coffee.
Then back.
“You bought the chair.”
The Single Dad blinked.
“What?”
“Second week.”
“You widened my noon schedule without asking why.”
“You fixed the sign when I told you it was wrong.”
She held his eyes.
“That version.”
“That’s the first version I trusted.”
The Single Dad nodded.
The Friday review ended.
Neither mentioned the conversation again.
But the room felt different afterward.
The truth about noon arrived during month four.
Her phone buzzed twice during a reconciliation meeting.
She ignored the first.
Looked at the second.
Her face changed.
“I need five minutes.”
“Take ten.”
She stepped outside.
The Single Dad watched through the window.
She paced.
Talked.
Argued gently.
Listened.
Then returned.
Picked up her pen.
“Where were we?”
The Single Dad did not open the spreadsheet.
“What’s happening?”
The Woman stared.
“With the vendor credit?”
“No.”
He nodded toward her phone.
“With you.”
She remained still.