Atticus snorted. “As if I have time to cheat on you. And with a woman no less. Please. Like you said earlier. I’m not looking to give up my pillow princess status.”
“And you’re the prettiest princess in the whole kingdom, Freckles.”
A couple of years ago, Atticus would have pouted for hours about being called pretty or princess, but now he preened. “Thank you. I try.”
“Chinese, Pizza or Indian food, princess?”
“Um…surprise me.”
Jericho surprised him by lifting his head and standing, dumping him back onto the couch unceremoniously. “Rude.”
“My phone’s charging on the counter, so unless you want me to just open the window and scream our order into the abyss, it's kind of a necessary step.”
Atticus glowered at him, pointing to the coffee table less than an arm’s reach away. “My phone’s right there.”
Jericho gave him a shit-eating grin. “Oops.”
“Mm,” Atticus said.
“Don’t pout, Freckles. I promise I’ll make it up to you later. All night long if you want.”
Atticus shivered, but continued to pretend to pout. “I guess. If you want.”
Jericho leaned down and kissed his head. “That’s my boy.”
He really was. For better or worse, Atticus would forever be Jericho’s boy. His favorite one. The one he was legally obligated to for life. And he wouldn’t trade that for anything.
As soon as Jericho walked in the door he felt a disturbance in the force. Usually, when he walked in, it was chaos. Atticus cooked while the kids played and Ms. Rachel sang forlornly about missing ducks. Or Atticus would be on the phone trying to order pizza while the kids sat in front of the television with video game controllers in their hands thinking they were playing Mario Kart.
Really, it was Atticus streaming videos of other people playing Mario Kart. Sure, it was a little dishonest, but the kids were terrible at the game and spent more time accidentally backing out of the screen than playing. And they only had a couple more years before they caught on to the ruse, maybe less.
But today, it was quiet. Too quiet. He found himself creeping around the living room on high alert, looking around like they might be hiding, waiting to spring from behind a door and scare him. But there was only Boots, sitting on the highest part of her cat tower, doing her best to avoid tiny hands.
“Freckles? Minis?” he called out, waiting for the maniacal pitter-patter of little feet barreling towards him, but there was nothing. What the fuck? This was weird.
He looked around the kitchen for a note, but there wasn’t one. His anxiety started to ratchet as he walked around the quiet apartment. “Where are they, Boots?” Jericho asked, she just gave him a haughty look then began to clean her leg.
He checked the kids room, and found it empty as well. It wasn’t until he entered his bedroom did he feel himself relax. Atticus lay starfished on the bed, on his stomach, in nothing but a pair of black and white checkered pajama pants. Since they’d had kids Atticus had gotten real lackadaisical about his wardrobe, at least at home.
Jericho approved. Anything that put less clothing between him and his fine as fuck husband was fine with him. And this situation looked promising. “Freckles?”
Atticus didn’t stir, just said, “Mm.”
It was six in the afternoon? Was his insanely responsible husband napping at six in the afternoon? Was he sick? Another migraine? Jericho walked to the bed, running his hands up under his husband’s pajamas to squeeze well-muscled calves. “You sick, Freckles?”
He didn’t raise his head, didn’t move a muscle. “Uh-uh.”
Jericho kneeled between his open legs, then smoothed his hands over pajama clad thighs. “Are the kids okay?“
Atticus scoffed like Jericho was asking the wrong question. “The kids are fine,” he muttered, then added,“No, scratch that. The kids are terrorists. Absolute fucking dicks. But they’re alive. And well. Adam and Noah took them to get dinner and ice cream.”
Jericho’s hands stopped moving about an inch from the curve of Atticus’s ass. “You gave our children to…Adam?”
“I didn’tgivethem to him,” he muttered. “I thought about it. A lot. But, for now, they’re on loan to him.”
“You…gave our children to Adam,” Jericho said again, hoping Atticus would understand why he was concerned. “On purpose?”
“AndNoah,” Atticus emphasized, still unmoving. “And don’t you lecture me, Navarro. I tried the real adults, but they were all busy with their own children. It was either Adam and Noah or I started punting our adorable little offspring into the parking lot like t-shirts at a Taylor Swift concert. Which would you rather I did?”
