The bailiff called Aria's name.
Her heart hammered as she stood. Her knees felt unsteady, but she locked them tight, forcing herself forward.
She could feel everyone's eyes — the judge, the lawyers, even Elias's heavy stare.
The oath felt like a dream.
"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"
"I do," Aria said, her voice steady — or at least steady enough.
She sat down, folding her hands tightly on her lap to hide the tremble.
Hutchins gave her a small nod from the table.
The prosecutor stood. A woman with a sharp, tight smile and a voice that dripped with fake politeness.
"Ms. Winters," she began, circling the courtroom like a shark. "You consider yourself a stable and responsible parent?"
"Yes," Aria said.
"Despite having no consistent full-time employment over the past three years?"
There it was.
The first strike.
Aria breathed through it.
"I took freelance work from home," she said. "So I could be present for my son."
"So you admit you were underemployed?"
"I prioritized my child's needs over traditional employment."
The prosecutor's smile tightened. "Convenient."
Aria said nothing.
"You've struggled with depression, have you not?"
There was a slight movement from Hutchins at the table — an objection ready if needed — but Aria shook her head minutely.
She could handle this.
"Yes," Aria said clearly. "I sought help. I received therapy. I still do."
"So you are currently in therapy?" the prosecutor pressed, voice rising slightly.
"Yes," Aria said. "Because I believe in taking care of my mental health the same way you would take care of a broken bone."
There was a small, surprised murmur from the benches behind.
The prosecutor didn't look pleased.
She flipped a page in her file.
"And yet, you expect the court to believe that you are fit to provide full-time care for a child?"
"I don't expect the court to believe anything," Aria said evenly. "I expect them to see the evidence. My son is healthy, happy, and thriving."
"Despite the instability you've brought into his life?"
Aria felt her temper spark — hot and dangerous.
But she forced it down.
"My son knows he is loved," she said firmly. "That's not instability."
The prosecutor paused, regrouping.
She picked up another paper.
"Let's talk about Mr. Elias Blackwood," she said, casually. "Your ex-partner. Would you describe your relationship as... turbulent?"
Elias sat up straighter at the table.
Aria met the prosecutor's eyes head-on.
"It was complicated," she said.
"Is it true he left you?"
"Yes."
"And returned?"
"Yes."
"And yet you are attempting to share custody with him?"
"We're not attempting," Aria said, voice cutting through the room. "We are sharing custody. Right now."
The prosecutor clicked her tongue.
"And you believe exposing a child to that kind of inconsistency is in his best interest?"
"Eli is not 'exposed' to anything unstable," Aria snapped before she could stop herself. "He has two parents who are willing to fight for him."
The prosecutor leaned back, satisfied with the anger she stirred.
No matter. Aria didn't regret it.
Sometimes anger was honest.
Hutchins stood for the Blackwood examination.
He approached the stand casually like they were old friends chatting over coffee.
"Aria," he said warmly. "Tell the court how your day usually begins."
She smiled faintly, the tension loosening a notch.
"I make Eli breakfast. We talk about the day ahead. I drive him to school unless Elias is doing the morning drop-off."
"And after school?"
"I help with homework. We do dinner together most nights. On weekends we spend time outdoors, visiting the library, or working on his stories."
"Stories?" Hutchins asked, feigning curiosity.
Aria smiled wider now.
"Eli loves writing stories about a superhero dog named Thunder," she said.
There was a ripple of soft laughter in the courtroom.
"And has Eli expressed any concerns about where he lives?"
"Never."
"Any complaints about his safety, his emotional needs, his care?"
"Never."
Hutchins nodded approvingly.
He turned slightly to face the judge.
"In your own words, Aria, what is most important to you?"
Aria didn't hesitate.
"My son's happiness and well-being. Always."
"And do you believe a shared custody arrangement benefits him?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because he deserves both parents. He deserves love and stability from both sides."
Hutchins smiled.
"No further questions, Your Honor."
Aria exhaled slowly as she was dismissed from the stand.
As she passed Elias at the table, he gave her a small nod of approval.
And somehow, that meant more than anything.
Outside the courtroom, during a break, Aria leaned against the cold marble wall, her head spinning.
"Hey," Elias said, coming over with two cups of coffee. He handed her one.
"You did good," he said simply.
Aria sipped it, grateful for the bitter strength of it.
"I felt like I was drowning."
"You kept your head above water. That's all that matters."
She looked at him, really looked.
"You know they'll come after you next," she said quietly.
He shrugged, a humorless smile twitching at his mouth.
"Let them."
Aria stared into her coffee.
"What if we lose?"
Elias didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, "We won't. But if we do... we'll figure it out. We always do."
His words were simple.
But something in the way he said them, the unshakeable belief underneath, made her chest ache.
When the next session began, Elias took the stand.
Aria sat frozen, watching.
He looked calm — infuriatingly calm — in his suit and tie, speaking clearly.
The prosecutor tried to paint him as reckless.
Irresponsible.
A man who abandoned his family once already.
Elias didn't flinch.
"Yes," he said flatly. "I left. It was a mistake. The biggest mistake of my life."
"And why should the court believe you won't make the same mistake again?" the prosecutor demanded.
Elias leaned forward slightly.
"Because I've already stayed. When it got ugly. When it got hard. I didn't run. I stayed. And I'll keep staying."
The prosecutor's mouth tightened.
"And you expect the court to overlook your history?"
"No," Elias said, voice hard. "I expect the court to look at the present."
The judge scribbled something down, not looking up.
When Hutchins questioned him, Elias spoke plainly about Eli.
About the mornings he made pancakes in the shape of superheroes.
About the way, Eli cried the first time he rode a bike without training wheels.
About the quiet moments — reading books, building forts — that no one saw but mattered more than anything.
By the time he stepped down, Aria was blinking back tears again.
Not because Elias was perfect.
But because he was trying.
And maybe that mattered more than perfection ever could.
After the court adjourned for the day, they walked to the parking lot in silence.
The sunset threw long shadows at Blackwood the cracked pavement.
Elias finally spoke.
"You were amazing today," he said.
"So were you," Aria said, voice thick.
They stood awkwardly by her car.
"One more day," he said.
"Yeah."
He hesitated, then reached out.
His hand brushed hers — just a touch.
"I'm proud of you," he said.
Aria squeezed his fingers.
"Me too," she whispered.
They stood there, holding hands loosely.