Hex is on his way
By the time Hex knocks, I’ve washed the glaze off my arms, swapped my sweaty bra for a clean one, and wrestled the carrots onto a serving dish that kind of hides the fact they’re still mostly raw.
I open the door to dark jeans, a fitted henley, and that tattoo just visible at the collar. He smells of cedar and clean laundry, and I already know I’m in trouble because my entire body softens just seeing him.
But before I can get lost in his presence, Bash barrels around the corner.
Hex steps inside, eyes catching mine for a half-second—just long enough to give me that grin that does very inappropriate things to my lady bits—then he crouches, meeting Bash eye to eye.
“You must be Sebastian.”
Bash narrows in on him, skeptical but not rude. “Are you the one who put my playscape in?”
Hex nods, one knee up, resting his forearm casually over the top. “Sure am. You test it out yet?”
“Yeah,” Bash says. “It’s solid. I jumped from the top and didn’t even roll my ankle.”
Hex laughs, deep and genuine. “Well, shoot, I must not have picked out one big enough for you, my man.”
Bash glances up at me. “Mom says I shouldn’t be jumping off of it.”
Hex tilts his head, mock serious. “Your mom’s right. But you could use the rope and swing off it, Tarzan style.”
I raise an eyebrow. He flashes me a quick wink, subtle enough that Bash doesn’t catch it, and something low in my stomach clenches hard.
Watching the two of them like this—Hex grounded and patient, Bash trying not to look completely thrilled—is disarming. There’s no awkwardness. No forced politeness. Just two people figuring each other out as if they’ve done this before in some other life.
We settle at the small kitchen table I salvaged from a yard sale last spring. It used to be chipped and waterlogged. I stripped the finish, sanded every inch of it down, and painted the legs a pale matte green. It’s still a little wobbly, but it holds.
Bash immediately scoots into the seat next to Hex.
“I usually sit there,” he tells him, pointing at his usual spot, “but you’re bigger. And in case there’s a fire or something, I feel like you’d probably be better at saving us.”
Hex doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s fair. I’ve got long legs and good reflexes. You sit tight, I’ll handle the escape route.”
Bash considers that for a moment, then nods with the authority of someone far too small to be that certain. “You’re kind of a big guy. You ever kill anyone?”
“Bash!” I hiss, nearly choking on air.
He shrugs, totally unbothered. “It’s a fair question if you’re going to date my mom.”
Hex turns toward him, completely unfazed, his mouth twitching with amusement. “No kills,officially.”
“Whoa.” Bash lights up, excitement and what I could only assume are a million questions bubbling inside of him. If Hex is being serious or not goes right over his head.
“Okay,” I cut in, placing the tray of chicken on the table with hands that aren’t as steady as I’d like. “Let’s redirect that curiosity to dinner, please.”
We start to plate up. Barely halfway through chewing a mouthful of carrots he’s pretending not to hate, Bash looks up at Hex again.
“You play video games?”
Hex sets his fork down and leans back in his chair slightly, giving my son his full attention. “Used to. Not much anymore. My little brother JT’s the real expert.”
Bash perks up at the mention of a little brother. “Is he my age?”
Hex shakes his head. “Twenty-four. And yeah, he’s always trying to get me into whatever’s new. But I’m trash at anything that requires more than two buttons.”
Bash grins. “You’d like Death Strike. You get to throw knives and sneak up on people and there’s, like… a lot of blood.”
