I shoot my son a look that could flatten buildings. “Bash.”
He shrinks just a hair. “I didn’t say I play it. I said he’d like it.”
Hex chuckles, then shifts his attention back to Bash, this time with a little more weight in his tone. “Your mom’s not wrong about the violent ones, kid. Some of them get in your head more than you think.”
Bash frowns. “Yeah, but they’re not real.”
“They’re not,” Hex agrees. “But your brain doesn’t always know the difference. You feed it too much violence, and it starts to think that’s normal. That it’s okay to react like that in real life.”
Bash pauses, his young brain turning the thoughts over.
“JT used to get real worked up after certain games,” Hex continues, picking up his fork again. “Couldn’t sleep. Always wired. Once, I had pulled the plug on his console and made him go outside. He pouted for a whole day, but then we ended up building a dirt ramp for his bike and he forgot all about the games.”
Bash is silent for a beat, clearly trying to picture that. “I guess… I’d rather have a ramp.”
Hex smiles with sincerity. “Smart choice.”
And that’s it. Nothing preachy. No lectures. Just that secure voice, calm and real, and somehow it lands with Bash in a way that sticks.
The chicken flakes apart in dusty threads, and the carrots snap under my fork, defiantly uncooked. I push most of my offerings around my plate, chew thoroughly what I can muster, and wash it down with a sip of tea.
But Hex?
He eats every bite. No weird faces. No choking.
Either he has no taste buds or the best manners I’ve ever seen on a man who could bench press my vehicle.
He leans back slightly in his chair, glancing at me between bites. “It’s really good.”
Bash nods around a mouthful. “Better than Nana’s meatloaf. Don’t tell her I said that.”
He’s only saying that because of Hex. Bash is the pickiest eater and challenges my patience on the daily when it comes to food choices. I press my napkin to my mouth to hide my grin.
Watching them like this—Bash leaning into Hex's space, Hex meeting every question with patience—something tight in my chest finally loosens. The walls I've spent years building, brick by careful brick, don't feel quite so necessary anymore. Not with him.
Bash stretches out beside him, questions still piling up, each one a quiet prod to see if Hex will flinch.
He hasn’t yet.
And I don’t think he will.
Bash reminds me so much of JT at ten, it’s fucking eerie. Too smart for his own good, already picking apart the world and trying to understand where he fits in it. He has that mix of curiosity and confidence that makes you want to see what he turns into when he’s older.
After we finish eating—and I power through every dry-ass bite of that chicken with the performance of a man at a five-star restaurant—Bash slips away and returns with a tablet.
“Wanna see what I built?”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning forward. “Show me.”
He slides back into the seat beside me with easy familiarity, his skinny elbow bumping mine as he tilts the screen so I can see. It’s some kind of elaborate fort-meets-labyrinth hybrid, pixelated but impressive. He’s already got traps set up and little signs posted for imaginary intruders.
“I’ve been working on this for a week,” he says proudly. “It’s not done yet, though. I still need a booby trap floor and maybe a lava moat.”
“A lava moat is always a good move,” I say dead serious. “You got guard animals?”
“Working on a pack of fire wolves.”
“Smart.”
