Chapter Text
Later that afternoon, Will takes Owen to the park by himself—and for the first ten minutes, it’s perfect.
Owen barrels ahead on the path in little stop-start bursts, sneakers slapping the pavement, hair already starting to escape whatever Natalie did to it this morning. Will follows in his chair at an easy pace, backpack hooked onto the backrest, a water bottle rattling faintly with each bump.
“Race you to the swings!” Owen calls.
Will points at the chair. “Unfair advantage.”
Owen giggles like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Daaaaad. You’re still slow.”
“Rude,” Will says, but he’s smiling as he rolls closer, watching Owen confidently climb up onto the swing seat.
It’s the kind of ordinary moment that makes Will’s chest feel full in a quiet way.
Then the comments start.
Not shouted. Not dramatic. Just… little darts tossed by people who think they’re being practical. A woman on the bench near the swings watches Will line his chair up beside the rubber mat. Her nanny uniform is crisp, the stroller beside her nicer than Will’s first car. She leans toward another parent and says, not quite under her breath, “Is he here alone?” The other parent—late thirties, perfect athleisure, phone in hand—glances over. “Looks like it.”
“Is that… safe?” the first woman murmurs.
Will pretends he doesn’t hear, because he’s used to pretending he doesn’t hear. He gives Owen a push—gentle, steady, the exact rhythm Owen likes.
“Higher!” Owen demands.
“You’re going to launch into orbit,” Will says. “NASA’s going to call me.”
Owen squeals. Behind them, another voice floats in—older, sharper.
“Poor kid,” someone says. “No wonder he clings.”
Will’s smile falters for a split second. He keeps pushing. Owen doesn’t notice. Owen lives in the world where rule number one is: Dad is here, therefore everything is fine. Will wishes he still lived there too.
⸻
They migrate to the climbing structure. Owen scrambles up the steps and crawls through the tunnel like he’s done this a thousand times. Will takes the path that loops around the climbing frame to the platform, his chair bumping over the textured surface.
A dad nearby—big voice, baseball cap, the confident posture of someone who thinks public spaces are his—watches Will stop at the edge of the platform. His expression shifts immediately into a kind of forced concern.
“Hey,” he says, looking at Owen and then back at Will. “You got someone with you?”
Will meets his gaze. “Nope.”
The man’s eyes flick to the chair. “So… how’s that work if he falls? Or if he bolts? Kids are fast.”
Will keeps his tone even. “Same way it works for anyone. You pay attention.”
The man frowns, like Will has failed to appreciate how generous this interrogation is. “I’m just saying, man. Seems… risky.”
Owen pops his head out of the tunnel. “Dad! Look! I’m a dragon!”
“That’s impressive,” Will calls up. “Are you going to breathe fire on the slide?”
“Yes!”
The baseball-cap dad’s mouth tightens. “Is that your kid?”
Will’s eyebrows lift. “Yeah.”
The man hesitates, then says the thing people always think they’re allowed to say when they’ve decided someone else’s life makes them uncomfortable.
“Respectfully… you his actual dad, or…?”
Will goes very still.
“Respectfully,” Will repeats, flat as a scalpel. “Yes. I’m his actual dad.” Will internally thinks not biologically but that’s not what this guy is meaning.
The man holds up his hands, like he’s the victim here. “Hey, I’m just—”
“You’re just being inappropriate,” Will finishes.
The man scoffs and turns away, muttering something that sounds like “someone should be watching that.”
Will exhales slowly through his nose.
He hates that his hands shake over it. He hates that the shake has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with rage he can’t do anything clean with.
Owen comes down the slide like a bullet, landing in the soft mulch with a delighted grunt. Dust sticks to his knees instantly.
He jogs over to Will with that sudden, instinctive little drift kids do—snack check, comfort check, are you still where you were?
“Can I have my crackers?” Owen asks, already halfway climbing onto Will. All up in his personal space as only a small child can.
Will reaches into the backpack without looking. “Sure, bud. Hold on.”
Before Owen can lean in closer, a nanny steps between them. Not gently. Not casually. Like she’s expecting danger.
“Oh sweetheart, don’t bother him,” she says brightly, voice too loud and too sweet. She puts a hand out toward Owen, as if to steer him away.
Will’s stomach drops.
“Don’t touch him,” Will says, sharp enough it cuts straight through her fake-sing-song.
The nanny freezes. Her smile flickers. “I’m sorry, I was just—”
“You were just what?” Will asks, voice low. He keeps his gaze steady, body absolutely still in his chair. “Blocking my kid from coming to me?”
The nanny’s cheeks pink. “I thought… I mean, I didn’t know if—”
“If what?” Will presses, and now he can feel eyes turning toward them, the park’s attention pulling tight like a snare. “If he was safe with me?”
Owen frowns, confused, small hand gripping the edge of Will’s chair.
“He’s safe,” Owen announces, very sure, like he’s explaining something obvious to grown-ups who are being weird.
The nanny looks flustered. “I’m sure you’re… trying your best,” she says, and somehow that’s worse than anything else today. Will feels something hot flare behind his ribs.
He leans forward slightly. “I’m not ‘trying my best,’” he says, calm as ice. “I’m parenting. And you don’t get to decide that my kid can’t come to me because you’re uncomfortable.”
A mother nearby someone Will hadn’t clocked until now steps closer. Not into Will’s space, just close enough to shift the energy.
“Hey,” she says to the nanny, tone polite but firm. “That’s his dad. Back off.”
The nanny blinks, startled by someone challenging her. “I wasn’t—”
“You were,” the woman says simply. “Leave them alone.”
There’s a beat where the nanny looks like she’s going to argue, then she turns and walks away quickly, shoulders tight. Will realizes he’s holding his breath.
Owen looks up at him, eyes wide. “Why was she bossing me?” he asks, offended on principle.
Will swallows hard and forces his face into something gentle. “Some grown-ups forget their manners,” he says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Owen nods, satisfied. “I want crackers.”
Will huffs a small laugh and finally digs out the snack bag. “I thought so.”
Owen takes the crackers and, without thinking, leans his forehead briefly against Will’s arm just a quick, grounding press and then scampers off again like the whole world has already moved on.
But Will stays still for a moment, fingers tight around the zip of the backpack.
The other mom lingers nearby, not staring, just… present.
“You okay?” she asks quietly.
Will lets out a breath. “Yeah,” he says, and it’s the truth and not the truth. “Thanks.”
She nods toward Owen as he charges toward the swings again. “He’s a good kid.”
Will watches him. “Yeah,” he says, voice softening. “He is.”
The woman hesitates, then adds, “People get weird. It’s not your job to make them less weird.”
Will gives her a look—half amused, half grateful. “I’m a doctor,” he says. “It’s kind of in my job description.”
She smiles. “Well, not today.”
Will watches Owen climb back onto the swing, legs pumping. The sun glints off the chains. His laugh carries across the park, clear and fearless.
Will rolls forward and gives Owen a push.
“Higher!” Owen demands again, like nothing happened.
Will obliges, steady and sure, because no matter what anyone thinks they see when they look at him—
Owen knows exactly who his dad is.
On the way home, Owen runs out of steam fast. It starts as a slower walk. Then he keeps drifting closer to Will’s chair, fingers brushing the side guard like he’s checking that Will is still there. By the time they reach the last corner before their building, Owen’s whole body has gone floppy with tired.
He stops, looks up at Will with heavy eyelids, and does the thing he used to do when he was smaller back when Will was still new in his life and Owen hadn’t quite decided what part of Will belonged to him. Though then up didn’t mean the same thing.
“Daddy… can I get up?” Owen asks, voice small.
Will’s heart does a stupid, aching little somersault at the word half habit, half hope. He misses when he could just easily pick Owen up and carry him home when he got tired.
“Yeah, bud,” he says softly.
Owen climbs carefully, practiced in the way kids get practiced when they’ve done something before. Will steadies him with one arm, shifts his posture, and Owen scoots onto his lap sideways, cheek instantly finding the warm spot on Will’s chest like it’s a homing beacon.
Will adjusts and tucks the edge of Owen’s hoodie around him like a blanket, and starts wheeling again slow and controlled, hands light on the rims. Owen sighs, the kind of sleepy sigh that means the world is shrinking down to one safe thing. For a few minutes, there’s only the sound of tires on pavement and Owen’s small breathing. Then, in a voice muffled against Will’s shirt, Owen asks, “Is it okay if I call you Daddy?”
Will swallows.
“Yeah,” he says gently. “It’s okay.”
Owen is quiet again, then adds, as if testing the words for sharp edges, “I know I had another Daddy… but he’s not here. I never met him.”
Will’s chest tightens. He keeps his voice steady, careful. “That’s right,” he says. “He was your daddy too, even though you didn’t get to meet him. And it’s okay to have more than one person who loves you like a dad.”
Owen’s brow furrows slightly. “Will Mommy mind? Will Grandma Helen mind?”
Will gives a small smile, rubbing his thumb in slow circles on Owen’s back. “Mommy won’t mind,” he says. “She’ll probably smile real big and then pretend she didn’t.” He pauses. “And Grandma Helen… Grandma Helen just wants you safe and loved. She might get a little teary, because she does that, but she won’t be mad.”
Owen hums, satisfied, and then, after a moment, asks the one Will feels coming even before the words are out.
“Will your legs get better?”
Will’s hands stay steady on the wheels. The streetlight ahead makes a soft puddle of gold on the pavement.
He takes a breath. “My legs probably aren’t going to work the way they used to,” he says quietly. “Not right now. Maybe not ever. But… I’m okay. And I’m still your Will. And I’m still your daddy if you want me to be.”
Owen absorbs that in the way kids do—seriously, completely, without the adult instinct to argue with reality. He shifts his head, presses his face closer to Will’s chest. Then he lifts his chin a little and squints up at Will like he’s solving a puzzle.
“Did you not eat enough veggies?”
Will lets out a startled breath that’s half laugh. “What?”
“Mommy says veggies are very important,” Owen says earnestly, words slightly slurred with sleep. “Is that why she makes me eat them? So that my legs don’t stop working?”
Oh. There it is. The tiny kid logic that tries to make scary things controllable.
Will slows his chair a touch, heart pulling tight in a way he keeps out of his voice.
“No, buddy,” he says firmly but gently. “My legs didn’t stop working because I didn’t eat veggies. I didn’t do anything wrong, and Mommy didn’t do anything wrong either. A tick made me sick. That’s all.”
Owen frowns, still working it through. “So veggies don’t stop ticks?”
“Veggies don’t stop ticks,” Will confirms. “Veggies help you grow strong and stay healthy like giving your body good tools. But sometimes people still get sick even when they do everything right.”
Owen thinks about that, then mutters, “Ticks are mean.”
“Ticks are very mean,” Will agrees.
Owen’s eyes drift closed again, the questions apparently answered enough for his sleepy brain.
Will keeps wheeling them home, Owen’s weight warm against him, small arms looped loosely around his middle.
When they reach their building, Owen stirs just enough to mumble, “I like you, Daddy Will.”
Will’s throat tightens so fast it surprises him.
“I like you too,” he whispers, and tips his head briefly against Owen’s hair before rolling them inside slow, careful, steady bringing the safest thing he knows back home.