And besides, Landon hasn’t tried anything stupid since the vent incident. No tantrums, no barbed comments beyond the usual. He even thanked me—twice—for the coffee. Small things, but they add up.
There’s a softening at the edges, a cautious thaw.
Maybe it’s exhaustion.
Maybe it’s strategy.
Either way, Landon isn’t fighting every breath anymore.
Curiosity gets the better of me and I open the cupboard door. Inside: neat plastic bins from years ago. Building blocks, stuffed animals in sealed bags, wooden train sets, a collection of die-cast cars still in their original boxes. Bright primary colorspeeking through clear windows. It’s like a time capsule of someone else’s childhood, carefully preserved.
I reach for the nearest bin without thinking too hard about it. Old-timey racing cars—red, blue, yellow, silver—plus a mismatched set of wooden blocks in primary colors. Enough to build something simple. Enough to kill a few hours.
If the boy hates the idea, he can tell me to fuck off.
If he doesn’t… well. It’ll pass the time. And maybe give me another data point on who he really is under the lawyer-in-training armor.
“Landon,” I call out as I carry the bin into the living area and set it down on the rug in front of the coffee table with a soft thud.
The boy glances over from the couch, eyebrows lifting. “What’s that?”
“Found some old toys in storage,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Figured you might want to play with them. Keep yourself occupied.”
He stares at the bin, then at me. A beat of silence stretches long enough that I start to second-guess the whole impulse.
Then he laughs—short, incredulous.
“Why on earth would you think I’d want to play with toys?” Landon snorts. “I’m twenty-three. An adult.”
I shrug one shoulder. “Had a feeling you might enjoy it. If nothing else, it’ll pass the time. Better than staring at the ceiling or rewatching the same three movies.”
Landon then studies me like he’s trying to decide if this is a trick. His gaze flicks to Claw, still tucked against his ribs, then back to the colorful cars peeking out of the box.
A long exhale. “Fine,” he says, almost grudgingly. “I’ll play. But only if you join me.”
I freeze for half a second.
Join him?
On the floor?
Playing with toy cars?
Every instinct trained into me over two decades in this life screams no. It’s undignified. It’s vulnerable. It’s a waste of focus when I should be checking perimeter alerts, reviewing the tactics for this whole thing, staying sharp.
But there’s something in his eyes—half challenge, half hope—that hooks me. It’s irresistible in a way I can’t quite name.
I exhale through my nose. “Fine.”
I lower myself to the rug—knees protesting a little, suit jacket discarded on the armchair first—and sit cross-legged opposite him. He slides down to join me, Claw carefully propped against the couch leg like a spectator.
We dump the blocks out first. Wooden cubes, rectangles, arches. Bright reds, blues, yellows. I start laying out a basic oval track while he sorts the cars by color, lining them up like they’re on a starting grid.
“Mom had an adventurous spirit,” Landon says quietly as he places a red racer at the front. “She drove Dad crazy. He bought her this vintage sports car, a red Alfa Romeo, early sixties. Itwas so cool. She’d take corners like she was racing Formula One. Dad would sit in the passenger seat gripping the door handle, pretending he wasn’t terrified.”
I glance at the boy. He’s smiling, but it’s the kind of smile that hurts around the edges.
“She sounds like trouble,” I say.
