“My mom’s working.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
The word was flat, practiced.
Sophie studied his face closely. “You have my nose,” she said suddenly. “And you do that thing with your mouth when you’re thinking.”
“I don’t,” Owen muttered.
“You just did.”
A man in a blazer approached, uneasy. “Sir, this isn’t appropriate—security—”
“No,” Nathan said firmly.
The man stepped back.
Nathan turned to Owen. “How long have you been here?”
“A while.”
“Are you hungry?”
A pause. Then a nod.
Sophie rummaged in her small purse and pulled out a granola bar. “Here. I don’t even like peanut butter.”
Owen unwrapped it carefully, eating slowly, like someone used to food disappearing.
A memory surfaced—Nathan at seven, in a silent mansion, learning not to ask for more.
He pushed it away.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“Close.”
“Is your mom sick?” Sophie asked gently.
Owen froze.
“She’s not being mean,” he said quickly. “She’s just right.”
Sophie looked up at Nathan. “He knows how to be quiet.”
The words landed heavily.
There are moments when you can turn away. Pretend you didn’t notice.
Nathan looked at his daughter. She wasn’t begging. She was trusting him.
“Owen,” he said slowly, “would you like to have lunch with us?”