The day had started peacefully.

Which, in Greg's experience, was usually a warning sign that things were about to go to hell.

Greg came home only after 3 hours of work, Stacy had a day off. Billy was curled up on the couch, lazily rolling his toy truck back and forth along the cushions while cartoons flickered on the TV. Stacy was in the kitchen, shuffling through a pile of legal documents with her coffee in one hand and a pen in the other.

Greg was stretched out in his chair playing Gameboy, his legs resting on the coffee table, his cane balanced across his lap.

Everything was still. Quiet. Too quiet.

And then Billy asked the question.

"Daddy… why you walk like that?"

Greg's fingers tightened around the cane.

Stacy's pen stopped mid-scratch.

Billy, oblivious to the sudden shift in the air, kept rolling his truck along the armrest, waiting for an answer like he had just asked about the weather.

Greg exhaled through his nose. He had been expecting this—eventually. He just hadn't expected it now.

"Because I like it," Greg said, smirking. "Chicks dig it."

Billy blinked. "What's chicks?"

"Greg," Stacy warned.

Greg sighed dramatically and tilted his head toward Billy. "It's a long, boring story, kid. Wouldn't you rather watch cartoons?"

Billy shook his head, blue eyes locked onto his father. "Tell."

Greg flicked his gaze toward Stacy, who was now watching him carefully.

She didn't say anything, but her expression spoke volumes.

You can't avoid this forever.

Greg leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his jaw. "Alright, but you asked for it."

Billy perked up, sitting straighter.

Greg tapped his cane lightly against the floor. "Once upon a time, Daddy's leg worked just fine. I ran, I played sports, I did crazy things like walk up the stairs without complaining."

Billy giggled. "No way."

"Yes way," Greg said. "Then one day, my leg got sick."

Billy frowned. "Sick?"

Greg nodded. "Really sick. Doctors tried to fix it. Didn't work. So now I walk like this."

Billy studied the cane for a long moment before tilting his head up at Greg again. "Does it hurt?"

Greg hesitated for half a second. "Nah," he lied. "I'm tough."

Billy seemed to consider this before nodding. "Okay."

And just like that, the conversation was over.

Stacy let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Greg smirked. "That was easier than I expected."

Billy clambered down from the couch and ran toward the hallway, already onto the next thing. "Gonna play!" he announced before disappearing into his room.

Greg exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.

Stacy, still watching him, set down her coffee and walked over.

"You okay?" she asked softly.

"Peachy," Greg muttered.

Stacy sighed, sitting on the edge of the couch next to him. "You didn't have to lie."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "About what?"

"That it doesn't hurt."

Greg rolled his eyes. "He's three. What was I supposed to say? 'Yeah, kid, every step sucks, but hey, life's unfair'? I don't think they cover that in parenting books."

Stacy didn't respond right away. Instead, she reached out, resting her hand on his knee—the good one.

Greg swallowed. He hated that she knew him this well.

After a beat, she squeezed his leg lightly and stood. "Come on," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "Where?"

"Out," she said simply. "Billy's distracted. Let's take advantage of it."

Greg smirked. "Stacy, if you wanted to make out, you could've just said so."

Stacy rolled her eyes but didn't take the bait. "We're going for a drive."

Greg groaned. "I hate your lawyer voice."

"You love my lawyer voice."

Greg muttered something under his breath but grabbed his cane and stood. "Fine. But I'm picking the music."

The drive was unplanned, and Greg suspected that was the whole point.

Stacy didn't tell him where they were going, and for once, he didn't ask.

They ended up on the outskirts of Princeton, where the streets got wider and the buildings gave way to trees.

Greg leaned back in his seat, propping his feet up on the dash.

"Cuddy would kill you if she saw this," Stacy muttered, glancing at his shoes on the dashboard.

Greg smirked. "That's why I'm doing it."

Stacy sighed but let him be.

The car fell into a comfortable silence, save for the hum of the engine and the soft classic rock playing through the speakers.

Finally, Greg turned his head to look at her. "So, what's this really about?"

Stacy kept her eyes on the road. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Greg drawled, "you only take random drives when you need to think. And since I'm not the one currently stressing over custody battles or divorce settlements, that leaves you."

Stacy was quiet for a beat. Then she sighed. "It's Billy."

Greg frowned slightly. "He seemed fine five minutes ago."

"I know," Stacy admitted. "But... he's starting to notice things. He's getting old enough to ask things."

Greg shrugged. "So?"

"So," she said, gripping the wheel a little tighter, "one day, he's going to ask why we aren't married."

Greg exhaled through his nose, staring out the window.

"We've talked about this," he said, his voice lower.

"I know," Stacy said softly. "I'm not saying I need a wedding. I just... I want to be able to give him answers."

Greg tilted his head back against the headrest. "You always did like answers."

"I'm a lawyer," she murmured. "It's kind of my job."

Greg smirked slightly but didn't respond.

The truth was, he had thought about it. Not in the way Stacy probably wished he would, but in the quiet moments—the ones where Billy was asleep and the apartment was too still. The ones where Stacy curled up against his side without saying a word.

But he wasn't his father.

And he wasn't stupid enough to believe that marriage magically fixed anything.

"I don't need a ring," Stacy said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Greg turned his head slightly.

She glanced at him, a small smile on her lips. "I just need you."

Greg stared at her for a long moment. Then he smirked. "That was disgustingly sappy."

Stacy laughed, shaking her head. "Shut up."

Greg tapped his cane against his knee. "Fine. But for the record, if Billy asks, I'm telling him you proposed to me."

Stacy rolled her eyes. "Unbelievable."

By the time they got back home, Billy was passed out on the couch, curled around his stuffed giraffe.

Greg scooped him up effortlessly, carrying him to bed. Stacy followed, watching from the doorway as Greg tucked him in.

As Greg straightened, Billy stirred slightly, blinking up at him sleepily.

"Daddy?" he mumbled.

"Yeah, buddy?"

Billy yawned. "Love you."

Greg's chest tightened. He swallowed. "Yeah. You too."

Billy smiled sleepily, then rolled over, already slipping back into dreams.

Greg stared at him for a long moment before stepping out of the room.

Stacy reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together.

Greg smirked down at her. "Told you I'm his favorite."

Stacy shook her head, but her smile was warm.

They didn't need a wedding.

Stacy spent the next hour in the study doing her paperwork, she expected the rest of the night to go as usual, maybe curl up with a book or let Greg annoy her until she gave in and let him pull her into his arms. But instead, the second she walked into the living room, she found Greg with a whiskey glass in one hand, his cane resting against the couch, and a prescription bottle on the table.

Her stomach twisted.

"Seriously?" she snapped, crossing the room in two strides. "Greg, what the hell?"

Greg barely glanced at her. "Nice to see you too."

She grabbed the bottle. "You refilled this?"

Greg exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. "Calm down."

"Calm down?" Stacy threw the bottle onto the table, the plastic clattering loudly against the wood. "What? six goddamn pills a day isn't enough ?"

Greg scoffed. "I had a long day."

"Oh, you had a long day?" Stacy let out a sharp laugh, but it wasn't amused. It was the kind that carried frustration, exhaustion, fear. "And what about Billy, huh? He barely sees you, and when he does, I don't want him growing up thinking it's normal for his father to be half-drugged all the time."

Greg's smirk vanished.

Stacy could see it—the anger rising behind his eyes, the way he hated being confronted like this.

"Wow," Greg said, his voice laced with venom. "That's rich. You're really gonna stand there and tell me how to be a father?"

Stacy's jaw clenched. "Someone has to."

The words landed like a slap.

Greg stood up, the air between them electric, his cane gripped tightly in his hand.

"I get it," he said coldly. "I'm the screw-up. The one who doesn't do enough. The one who always lets you down."

Stacy's throat tightened. "Greg, that's not what I—"

"You want perfect?" he interrupted, eyes burning. "You should've loved someone else."

Tears burned at the back of her throat.

She hated him sometimes. Hated that he could cut her down in a single sentence. Hated that he thought so little of himself that he refused to believe anyone could love him, choose him, and not regret it.

But the worst part?

She loved him anyway. God, she loved him anyway.

"I didn't choose perfect," she whispered. "I chose you."

For the first time, Greg didn't have a comeback.

His grip on his cane tightened, his jaw working as he stared at her. The storm between them crackled, waiting to break.

Then, before she could say anything else, he turned.

"I'm going out," he muttered, grabbing his jacket.

"Greg—"

But he was already at the door.

And then he was gone.

He didn't come back for hours.

Stacy sat curled up on the couch, staring at the clock, her nails digging into her palm.

She was furious.

She was worried.

She was so goddamn tired.

When the door finally creaked open at almost 2 AM, she shot up, her pulse pounding as Greg walked inside, his hair damp from the rain, his expression unreadable.

She didn't even wait for him to speak.

"Where the hell were you?" she demanded.

Greg tossed his jacket onto the chair, shrugging. "Needed air."

"Air," she repeated, her voice trembling with anger. "That's what you're calling it?"

Greg sighed, rubbing his temples. "Stacy, I really don't—"

"No." She stormed toward him, shoving his chest, making him stumble slightly. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to walk away, come back at two in the morning, and act like I'm the one overreacting."

Greg stared at her. "I didn't—"

"You always do this," she cut him off, tears dripping out of her eyes now. "You shut down, you push me away, you run. Do you even care, Greg?"

"I told you that would happen." He muttered under his breath.

And that's when something snapped.

Because suddenly, Greg's hands were on her face, his lips crashing into hers, and she was kissing him back, gripping his shirt, yanking him closer, closer, closer.

It was anger and love and desperation, all wrapped into a fire that burned through them both.

Greg lifted her, stumbling toward the wall, pressing her against it, his breath ragged, his hands everywhere.

She moaned against his mouth, fingers tugging at his hair.

"Tell me to stop," Greg muttered, his lips trailing down her neck.

"Don't you dare," she gasped, wrapping her legs around his waist.

And for the first time in weeks, they weren't fighting.

They were falling apart together.

AFTER.

The apartment was silent except for their breathing.

They lay tangled on the living room floor, their bodies spent, their hearts still pounding in sync.

Greg stared at the ceiling, his fingers idly tracing patterns along Stacy's back.

She pressed her face against his chest, exhaling slowly.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Greg spoke.

"I do care," he murmured.

Stacy closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheek.

Because she knew how hard it was for him to say that.

How hard it was for him to stay.

"I know," she whispered.

And as she listened to his heartbeat, steady beneath her ear, she let herself believe it.

Because no matter how many storms they had to fight through, she'd rather be here—with him—than anywhere else.

END.