“Come on, buddy,” I whisper, ushering him toward the hallway. “Let’s get some breakfast going.”
He shuffles out, yawning, and I close the bedroom doorjustenough to give Lore cover while not making it obvious I’m hiding something.
Time to act like a parent… and pray my six-year-old doesn’t notice the woman hiding in my bed.
By the time I slide a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, Milo is awake enough to give me a heart attack.
“Where’s Mommy?” he asks, stabbing his toast. Literally stabbing it with his fork.
“Wha-?” I stall like a complete idiot, nearly dropping the spatula.
He sighs dramatically. “I’m gonna be late for school.”
“Oh. Uh… I’ll take you today,” I say quickly, wiping my palms on a towel. “Mommy had… work.”
He makes a face, scrunching his nose as he tries cutting toast with the fork, which, why does he always do that?
“She’salwaysworking,” he mutters.
“Hey,” I say gently, sliding into the chair beside him. That’s not true.”
“Itis,” he grumbles, still not looking at me. “Everyone’s mommy comes to school and class and Mommy doesn’t.”
My chest squeezes. God, Lore would break if she heard that. She tries so damn hard.
I lean forward on my forearms, lowering my voice like I’m letting him in on a secret.
“Well… Grandpa comes. And me. And Uncle Harvey.” I soften my tone. “And Mommy does too, bud. Just not every day.”
He lifts the piece of toast,the whole thing, with his fork and bites into it. I bite back the urge to feed him the forgotten eggs myself and crouch next to his chair so we’re eye-level.
“Milo,” I say softly, brushing his hair off his forehead, “your mommy has a really important job. Alright? She saves people.People who are hurt, people who need help.” I smile, tapping the tip of his nose. “Just like a hero.”
Milo pauses mid-chew, thinking hard. His little brows pull together in worry.
“Like you?” he asks in a small voice.
My breath catches.
I smile, brushing my thumb over his cheek. “Better,” I say quietly. “Way better.”
He studies me for a second, like he’s trying to decide if I’m telling the truth or just being a dad.
Then he nods decisively. “Okay. Mommy’s a hero. But you’re… you’re my daddy.”
And just like that, I’m done. Finished. Emotionally obliterated.
I pull him into a proper hug this time, pressing my chin to his messy hair.
“Yeah, bud,” I whisper, voice thick. “I’m your daddy.”
When I let go, he looks perfectly satisfied with himself, grabs another toast with hisfork, and says around a mouthful.
“Can I have juice?”
I stand, ruffling his hair. “Yeah. Juice coming right up.”
Leaving Milo to his breakfast and his juice, I head down the hall to grab Agnes, only to stop dead when I reach the crib.
