Aiden nods, as if Mason just imparted a vital life lesson. “You did. I should’ve listened. I will next time.”
Mason beams.
My chest tightens in a way I don’t like. This moment, in anyone else’s life would give a mom some hope. But knowing that Aiden regrets me means that there’s no hope here. Only pain.
I can’t let Mason get attached to Aiden.
Aiden straightens, finally standing to his full height, and that’s when he really looks at me. Not a glance. A look. His gaze sweeps from my bare legs to the hem of the shirt, up to my face. Something flickers there—recognition, maybe, or memory—but he keeps his expression easy.
“Morning, Sunshine.”
“Don’t call me that,” I say immediately, heat rushing to my face as memories rush to the fore.
His mouth curves. “Why not?”
“Because,” I say, uselessly.
“It fits.” He says it so matter-of-factly that my urge to kick him returns.
Why is he being like this, if I’m someone he regrets? Why be flirty and calm and cool and collected, when I feel like I’m losing my mind?
I cross my arms, suddenly aware of how little I’m wearing. “You didn’t have to—” I gesture vaguely at the disaster. “All this.”
He shrugs. “Kid wanted pancakes.”
Mason points out, “Heropancakes.”
Aiden snorts. “Right. Hero pancakes.”
Great. They’re teaming up against me. “He’s five. You don’t have to give him everything he wants. The next thing you know, Christmas comes every month?—”
“We can do Christmas every month?” Mason asks, hope widening his eyes.
“No,” I tell him a little too sharply.
But he doesn’t seem to notice, instead looking down at the milk. “I think the kitchen attacked us first.”
Thank God he’s off the monthly Christmas question. Okay, I can live with the occasional pancake disaster if it means he doesn’t get his hopes up about my expensive turns of phrase.
Mason continues, “Should we start over?”
“That’ll be the only way we get hero pancakes,” Aiden says.
I watch the exchange like it’s something fragile that might shatter if I breathe wrong. There’s no awkwardness in Aiden, no stiffness. He talks to Mason like this is normal. Like he’s done it before. Like he could keep doing it.
A sharp pang hits behind my ribs, unwelcome and uninvited.
Mason beams up at me. “Okay, Mommy, we’re gonna make another batch.”
I turn to Aiden. “That’s not necessary. He can have cereal.”
“Mah-um!” Mason whines. When he’s unhappy, my name has two syllables.
Aiden arches a brow. “I figure if he’s already covered in flour, we might as well make it worth the mess, right?”
I can’t help it. I smile. “That makes ayoukind of sense, I suppose.”
Something shifts in his expression—not quite a smirk, not quite serious. His gaze lingers a second longer than necessary, and in that second, the memory of last night presses in. The question I asked. The silence he gave me.
