The divorce papers were supposed to be finalized by Memorial Day.

They weren't.

A government holiday, an absent paralegal, and one unsigned form that got faxed to the wrong office in Detroit all contributed to a delay that stretched into June. Trench didn't mind. He wasn't in a rush. The waiting had become part of the process—a kind of drawn-out exhale after months of tightly-held breath.

When it finally happened, it was a quiet, bureaucratic affair.

He and Kate met outside the courthouse, both holding coffees, both pretending they hadn't rehearsed what they'd say. She wore a blazer he'd helped pick out years ago, and he still had his badge clipped to his belt, just in case the Bureau called mid-signature. Neither of them cried.

"Well," Kate said, flipping through the copies the clerk had handed them, "only took fourteen months and seventeen rescheduled meetings."

Trench snorted. "I've seen less red tape during an AWE."

She grinned, soft but real. "You still working Saturdays?"

"Only if reality starts to break again."

"So… every week, then?"

They both laughed, quietly, in the warm June morning.

The custody agreement was simple, all things considered. His work schedule made full-time parenting impossible, and they both knew it. He hated that, but pretending otherwise wouldn't help Susanna.

So Kate would have primary custody. Trench would get the last weekend of every month. Holidays would be flexible, depending on assignments and whether the Bureau's cafeteria still served edible mashed potatoes.

They shook hands when it was done. It felt ridiculous, but also necessary. A way to say: We tried. We're still trying.

That afternoon, Trench stopped by Kate's place. Not the house they used to share—this one had brighter windows, fewer ghosts.

Susanna was coloring on the living room floor when he walked in. She looked up with a bright smile that dimmed just a little when she saw the folder in his hand.

"Hey, bug," he said, kneeling beside her. "Got something for you."

She peered suspiciously at the folder. "Is it more work stuff?"

"Nope. Just really boring adult paperwork."

She relaxed. "Okay. Then I don't care."

He laughed and ruffled her hair. "You'll care when you're old and very wise. Like seven."

"I am seven."

"Then clearly I'm late."

They sat together for a while, drawing. She handed him the pink crayon with all the paper peeled off and told him to stay inside the lines this time. He tried. Failed. She rolled her eyes.

When it was time to leave, the air grew heavier.

Trench stood in the doorway, keys in hand, coat half-on. Susanna didn't meet his eyes right away.

"I'll see you at the end of the month," he said softly. "It'll be here before we know it."

She nodded, but her lip wobbled. "That's a lot of days."

"Yeah," he said. "It is."

He crouched down again, voice low. "But I'll call. And when I see you, we'll make the whole weekend count. Deal?"

She blinked fast and threw her arms around his neck. "Deal."

He held her tight, the kind of hug that anchored him in ways even the Oldest House couldn't undo. Then he pulled back just a little, enough to look her in the eyes.

"You know you're my favorite little girl, right?"

She sniffled once, then grinned. "I'm your only little girl."

"Still counts."

She giggled. He smiled.

He left before he could change his mind, before the sadness caught up with either of them.

The papers were signed. The terms were set.

But this part—this goodbye, this promise—it never got easier.

And somehow, that made it feel real.