No.
I protect both—or I die trying.
Having more in my life is fucking terrifying, especially right now, when it feels like more just means more to lose, and my grip tightens on the wheel as that truth settles heavy in my chest.
I force myself to breathe through it.
Beside me, she shifts, glancing up at me like she feels it—the shift, the edge.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
I look at her.
At the softness in her expression. The quiet hope she’s trying not to let get too big.
Just like that, everything else dims.
I reach over, my hand settling over hers, pressing the photos between our palms.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m good.”
No point getting bogged down in the what-if’s—just focus on what we can do right now.
For one thing, stop fucking daydreaming and pay attention to the road.
The gates come into view….and with them comes the noise.
Media vans line the street.
Cameras raised.
Voices shouting over each other.
And threaded through it, louder than the rest…
The protestors.
Signs lifted high.
White crosses painted across black boards.
Children of the Cross.
My jaw locks.
These dopey fuckers again.
I can almost hear the chorus of wild Karens and Kyles in my head playing out—“My book preaches acceptance, except for you, because fuck you.”
“My book says you’ve gotta die so Gideon can have a crack at your wife.”
A flicker of something dark and amused cuts through the irritation before I can stop it.
I wonder if I slipped Igor a few bucks, whether he’d mind lobbing a few cans of tear gas or bear spray at them…
The SUV ahead slows, security already moving, pushing bodies back, creating a path.
Oh, shit—fuckers, is that you parting like the Red Sea in front of me, like the legs of my beautiful wife?I don’t look at them.
