It’s made exactly how I like it. Cream, no sugar. How does he?—
“You used to make it the same way in high school,” he says quietly, reading my expression. “Some things don’t change.”
“Everything’s changed,” I whisper.
“Not everything.” His hand finds the small of my back, just for a second. Grounding. Warm through the silk of my blouse. “Drink your coffee, firefly. Let us help. You don’t have to do everything alone anymore.”
But I don’t know how tonotdo everything alone. I’ve been doing it for five years. Being self-sufficient. Being strong. Being?—
“Mom?” Liam’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Can you check my backpack? I want to make sure I have everything.”
And just like that, I’m back in motion. Because my children need me, and I can process my complicated feelings about three men invading my kitchen later.
“Of course, baby.” I set down my untouched coffee and move to his side. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Behind me, I hear Cal muttering about napkins and Jace asking something about whether the boys prefer apple juice or fruit punch, and Silas telling Noah that Mickey’s smile is made of whipped cream, not syrup, so maybe don’t drown it, and I think:
This is what I was afraid of.
Not that they’d be bad at this. But that they’d be good. That my sons would respond to them like they’ve been waiting their whole lives for this. That it would feel natural instead of forced.
That it would feel like family.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
22
PARKER
The backpack check reveals that Liam has, in fact, packed everything plus some—extra pencils, backup erasers, a small notebook “just in case,” and his gym shoes in a separate bag so they don’t touch his regular supplies. Noah’s backpack is a disaster of crumpled papers, and a juice box that I’m ninety percent sure wasn’t supposed to be in there, but we make it work.
Ten minutes later, we’re loading into the SUV.
Jace takes the driver’s seat with that military efficiency, adjusting mirrors and checking sight lines like we’re heading into a combat zone instead of elementary school drop-off. I slide into the passenger seat, and immediately the boys are scrambling for the back.
“I want the window!” Noah announces.
“You had the window last time!” Liam protests.
“Boys,” I start, but Cal’s already moving.
“Rock, paper, scissors,” he declares, settling into the middle row. “Best two out of three. Winner gets the window, but loser gets to pick the music.”
“We get to pick music?” Noah’s eyes go wide.
“Within reason,” Jace says from the driver’s seat, starting the engine. “NoBaby Shark.”
“Aw, man!”
I twist in my seat to watch them play it out—Cal officiating with exaggerated seriousness, both boys completely absorbed in the game. Liam wins with paper over rock, claims his window seat with quiet satisfaction. Noah pouts for exactly three seconds before Cal hands him the aux cord like it’s a sacred artifact.
“Choose wisely, kid. This sets the tone for the whole day.”
Silas climbs into the far back, all sprawled danger in the third row, but his eyes track the boys with an intensity that makes my chest tight.
Through the window, I can see Charles’s vehicle pulling up behind us—Marcus at the wheel, Sienna in the passenger seat, Lottie and Jimmy already waving at their cousins through the glass. The third security vehicle idles behind them, four stone-faced guards who probably cost more per hour than most people make in a day.
And flanking us on both sides, four motorcycles with riders in tactical gear that screams don’t fuck with this convoy.
