Erik Nielsen is exactly what I expected and somehow worse.
He arrives Thursday afternoon in a rental car that costs more than my first apartment, wearing a tailored coat and an expression that suggests he's already found us lacking. Tall like Axel—taller, actually—with silver hair swept back from a face carved from the same ice as his homeland.
"Father." Axel's voice is flat. Careful. Nothing like the man I know.
"Axel." Erik's eyes sweep past his son to the house behind him, cataloging everything. The toys are visible through the window. The car seats in the driveway. The evidence of a life he didn't sanction. "It's smaller than I expected."
Not hello. Not good to see you. Just immediate judgment delivered like a weather report.
"This is Selene," Axel says, gesturing to me. "And Mateo."
Erik's gaze lands on me first. Studies me with the detachment of someone evaluating livestock. "The psychologist."
"Dr. Marlowe," I correct, keeping my voice pleasant. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Nielsen."
"Hm." His attention shifts to Mateo, and something flickers in his expression—disapproval, distaste, something he's too polite to name. "The other one."
Mateo's smile doesn't waver, but I see the tension in his jaw. "Mateo Velasco. Welcome to Seattle."
"I won't be staying here." Erik adjusts his coat. "I've booked a hotel. More appropriate."
Of course he has. Staying in our home would require acknowledging it as a home rather than a temporary aberration.
"The children are inside," Axel says. "If you'd like to meet them."
"Later, perhaps. After dinner." Erik checks his watch. "I made reservations at Canlis for seven. I assume you can arrange childcare."
It's not a question. Nothing with this man is a question.
"Naomi's already on her way," I say, because we anticipated this exact power play.
"Good." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Until then."
He returns to his rental car and drives away, leaving us standing in the driveway like dismissed servants.
"Well," Mateo says after a long moment. "He seems delightful."
Axel doesn't respond. He's staring at the space where his father's car was, face completely blank.
"Hey." I touch his arm. "You okay?"
"Fine."
He walks inside without another word. I hear the door to our bedroom close a moment later.
"Glacier mode," Mateo murmurs. "Shit."
The dinner at Canlis is an exercise in elegant torture.
Erik chose the restaurant deliberately—expensive, traditional, the kind of place where three adults in an unconventional relationship will feel like specimens under glass. We're seated at a corner table with impeccable lighting that highlights every micro-expression.
Axel has said maybe twelve words since we arrived. He sits rigidly beside me, ordering without looking at the menu, answering his father's questions in monosyllables. The confident man I know has disappeared, replaced by someone smaller. Someone careful. Someone waiting for the next blow.
"So." Erik swirls his wine, studying me across the table. "You were engaged to Cassian Drummond before this arrangement began."
"I was."
"And you left him because of infidelity."
"He left me no choice."
"There are always choices." His tone implies mine were wrong. "You could have addressed the situation privately. Worked through it. Instead, you made a public spectacle and involved my son in your drama."
"Father—" Axel starts.
"I'm asking her, not you." Erik doesn't look at his son. "Dr. Marlowe, do you understand what you've done to his career? His reputation? The Nielsen name has been associated with Icelandic excellence for three generations. Now it's associated with tabloid scandals and paternity questions."
My professional training kicks in, keeping my voice steady. "Your son is one of the best power forwards in the league. His career speaks for itself."
"His career is irrelevant if his personal life becomes a liability." Erik sets down his wine glass with precision. "The lawsuit alone will damage his endorsement potential. Companies don't want controversy. They want clean images, traditional families, marketable athletes."
"With respect, Mr. Nielsen, what companies want and what makes a person happy aren't always the same thing."
"Happiness is temporary. Reputation is permanent."
I want to argue. Want to point out that his son is happier than he's ever been, that our family works, that the only person making this difficult is currently sitting across from me with a superior expression. But I feel Axel's hand on my thigh under the table, squeezing gently.
Don't, the pressure says. It won't help.
So I swallow my response and let Erik redirect his attention to Mateo.
"And you." The distaste is less veiled now. "What exactly is your role in this arrangement?"
Mateo's smile is all charm, no warmth. "I'm their partner. I help raise the children. I love them both."
"Love." Erik says the word like it's a foreign concept. "How convenient that 'love' lets you live in a house you couldn't afford, with opportunities you didn't earn."
"Father." Axel's voice is sharp. Sharper than I've heard it all evening. "That's enough."
"I'm simply asking questions. Surely if this arrangement is as solid as you claim, it can withstand questions."
"Your questions aren't questions. They're accusations."
For a moment, father and son stare at each other across the table. Two glaciers meeting, cold pressing against cold.
Erik looks away first, but it doesn't feel like victory. "I merely want what's best for you, Axel. I always have."
"No. You want what's best for the Nielsen name. Those aren't the same thing."
The rest of dinner passes in painful silence. We eat food I can't taste, drink wine I don't want, perform the motions of a family meal that feels more like a hostage negotiation.
When the check comes, Erik pays without comment. Power move. Everything with him is a power move.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he tells Axel in the parking lot. "Perhaps we can speak privately. Without—" His gesture encompasses me and Mateo. "—distractions."
Axel doesn't respond. Just stands there, rigid, until his father's rental disappears into the night.
"I need to go home," he says finally. "I need to be away from here." And he gets up from his place without second glances.
The drive back is silent. Mateo tries once to make a joke, reads the room, stops. I want to reach for Axel, but he's so closed off that touch feels like trespass.
At home, Naomi's watching TV with the baby monitors beside her. She takes one look at our faces and asks no questions.
"They were angels," she says, gathering her things. "Call me if you need anything."
Axel disappears into the home gym. I hear weights clanking moments later—loud, aggressive, punishing.
"Should we—" Mateo starts.
"Give him time." I lean against the kitchen counter, exhausted from performing normalcy for three hours. "He'll come out when he's ready."
"His father is a piece of work."
"His father is what happens when control matters more than connection." I rub my temples. "Axel spent his whole life trying to earn approval from someone incapable of giving it. And now Erik's here, in our space, making him feel small again."
"How do we fix that?"
I don't have an answer. I'm good at helping strangers work through family trauma. I'm apparently less good at watching it happen to someone I love.
"We wait," I say finally. "We let him know we're here. And we hope that's enough to fight what Erik put in his head."
From the gym, the sound of weights continues. Heavy. Relentless. Punishing.
Glacier mode activated.
And I have no idea how to break through.