The apartment buzzed gently with morning rituals. Steam floated from the kitchen, soft jazz played in the background, and the aroma of cinnamon toast and dumpling soup danced in the air.
Jace sat at the breakfast counter, swinging his tiny legs as he reached clumsily for a pair of chopsticks. His tongue peeked from the corner of his lips in concentration.
"Good job," Naya said softly, gently turning his hand. "Hold it like this."
"But it's slippery," he pouted.
"Slippery things are worth catching," Nian chimed in, entering the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up and damp hair from the shower. He kissed Naya's cheek on the way to the coffee machine, then ruffled Jace's curls.
Jace gave a squeaky laugh. "Baba, make toast!"
"You mean: please, Baba," Naya corrected, raising an eyebrow.
Jace blinked innocently. "Please… Baba make toast."
Naya grinned, placing a hand on her hip. "You're raising a mini dictator."
Nian leaned over and kissed her neck again. "He's just smart—he knows who the boss is."
"Mm. Do you mean me, or him?"
Nian sipped his coffee with a smirk.
---
Later that morning, Naya walked Jace to school. The sidewalks shimmered with sunlight, and she wore a simple black hoodie over high-waisted jeans, her dreadlocks tied in a loose ponytail under a gray cap. She'd been trying to blend in more—but even blending, she stood out. Her presence was warm, earthy, grounded.
Parents watched curiously—some smiled politely, others whispered. Jace, oblivious, ran ahead toward his favorite rock near the school gate.
"He's settling in well," one of the teachers told her in slow English.
Naya smiled. "He's adapting faster than I expected."
"He's clever. Observant. He asks... very deep questions," the teacher chuckled.
Naya turned to look at her son. "He's his father's child."