Z chuckles as he opens the door. “Well, I had a meeting. And then I visited a friend in the hospital.”

“Like Grandpa?”

“Not quite.”

Z looks at me and I shrug. It’s up to him how much he wants to tell his son.

Chance doesn’t want to let Z out of his sight. Even insisting he help with bath time. I don’t think Z knows what to do with that.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes.

“Why? I’m more than happy to hand over bath duties to you.” I pass him some towels, a bath bomb, some toys, and wish him luck.

Singing and splashing noises follow me into the kitchen while I prepare a snack for Chance. Eventually they emerge—Z’s drenched, but wearing a proud grin and Chance wrapped in his favorite bear-shaped towel.

“Hungry?”

“Yes,” they both answer.

While they sit down to eat, I hurry to grab an uninterrupted shower. Something I haven’t been able to do in years. Z and Chance should be fine together for a few minutes. Heck, I bet Chance falls asleep right after lunch.

“You know I wanted to soap you up, right?” Z’s low, raspy voice startles me and I drop the bottle of conditioner in my hand, narrowly missing my foot.

“Did he pass out?” I ask.

“Practically in his plate. Was that your plan? To tire him out?”

“That’s always my plan.”

There’s a thud, followed by another a few seconds later. A clink and rustle of clothing. I peek my head out of the shower. “Joining me?”

“He’s in his bed. Still dressed in the bear towel but out cold.”

I chuckle and wait. My shower isn’t small, but Z definitely takes up a lot of room in it. “Where were you?” he asks.

“About to condition my hair.”

He motions for me to give him the bottle and I have to bend over to grab it.

“Jesus, woman. What are you trying to do to me?”

I hand over the bottle and he turns me around, pulling all of my hair into his big hands. “How much of this do I need to use?”

“A lot. I have a lot of hair.”

He tugs gently. “Don’t ever cut it.”

“I thought about it when Chance was smaller because he was always pulling on it and I really didn’t have the time or inclination to worry about what I looked like.”

“Hmm.”

Without turning around, I can’t tell if it’s a sound of acknowledgment or if he’s annoyed I brought up a time he wasn’t a part of.

“Will you tell me more?” he asks as he gently kneads his fingers into my scalp.

“About?”

“When you were pregnant. What he was like as a baby.”