“She was.” Landon pushes the red car forward an inch. “The good kind. I miss her every day.”
The admission hangs there, simple and raw. I don’t know how much of his father’s real business Landon actually knows, how deep the Galkin shadow stretches into his memories. But the grief is real. Undeniable. It makes something in my chest tighten.
Rather than dwell, I nudge a blue car up beside his. “Ready?”
He nods. “Ready.”
We race. No fancy rules, we just push the cars along the block track, make engine noises if we feel like it. He does, I don’t, but I don’t stop him. He crashes his red car into mine on purpose at the first turn, laughing when it spins out.
“Cheater,” I mutter.
“Strategy,” Landon corrects, grinning. “Youalwaysneed a strategy.”
“Right,” I reply, suspicious at first but then a smile coming over me.
We rebuild the track taller, add ramps. The boy tells me about the time his mom tried to teach him to drive stick on an empty parking lot when he was fourteen. His dad caught them andnearly had a coronary. I tell Landon, briefly, about the beat-up Lada my uncle used to let me tinker with in the garage when I was a kid. Nothing deep. Just surface stories. Safe ones.
For a while the penthouse doesn’t feel like a cage. It feels almost… normal.
After the third lap he sits back on his heels, cheeks pink from laughing. “Okay,” Landon says, quieter now. “I’ll admit it. I’m a Little.”
The words land soft but heavy.
I meet his eyes. He’s watching me carefully, like he’s waiting for judgment. Or rejection.
I could say it.
I could tell him I’m a Daddy, that I have been for years, even if I’ve kept it locked down tight since the last relationship went to hell. The words sit right there on my tongue.
But I swallow them.
Instead I nod once. “Makes sense.”
He exhales, relieved. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A small smile tugs at his mouth. “So… you’re not going to make fun of me?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say.
He looks down at the scattered blocks, then back up. “Thank you. For this. For… not being a complete asshole about it.”
I grunt. “Don’t get used to it.”
Landon chuckles and picks up a yellow car, rolls it slowly back and forth between his palms.
“You know… if we’re doing this wholepassing the timething,” Landon begins. “We should probably have proper snacks. Juice boxes would be nice. The little ones with the bendy straws.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Juice boxes.”
“Apple,” Landon beams. “Or fruit punch. Whatever they send on the next supply drop.”
I consider arguing—Viktor’s people don’t run a daycare—but the look on his face stops me. Hopeful. A little vulnerable.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll add it to the list.”
His smile widens, real this time. “Thank you, Ivan.”
