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The poor bastard pales further.

After going over the drop-off and pick-up routine one more time, Lou crouches down and bops Dallas on the nose. “Have a great day—and give ’em hell, kid.” I watch him closely, the way his mouth twitches like he wants to smile but doesn’t quite trust the feeling. There’s a hesitation in him, like he’s still waiting for the floor to fall out from under him. But then he nods at her—solid, like he’s anchoring himself there.

“We’ll both be picking you up today, D,” I tell him. He gives me a quick nod, more out of habit than anything else.

“But if you need anything—” I start.

Lou cuts in before I can finish, jabbing a thumb toward the front desk. “You march into that office and tell that old bat behind the counter you need to make a phone call.”

Dallas shifts, eyes falling to his sneakers. “What if they don’t let me?”

I go to answer, but Lou doesn’t miss a beat. “Then someone’s getting an ass whooping.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Calm down, Apollo Creed.”

I kneel down a little, meeting Dallas eye to eye. “That’s not how it works. If you need to call me, you call me. No one’s going to stop you. I promise, alright?”

He exhales slowly, like letting go of something he’s been holding tight to, and gives me another one of those tiny nods that somehow says more than words ever could. We knock knuckles, and I gently guide Lou toward the exit before she adds the secretary to her hit list.

Once outside, she stops just past the door, arms crossed beneath her chest, gaze fixed straight ahead like she can still see through walls. Her jaw’s tight. She doesn’t say anything at first.

“Wildflower, he’s going to be just fine,” I say quietly.

She doesn’t look at me, but her voice is clear. “He fucking better be.”

I lean in, give her a quick boop on the nose like she’d done to Dallas, and toss her my best grin. “That kid’s too much like you not to be. And Wrinkler? Yeah, still terrified.”

“Good,” she mutters, finally starting to walk, chin up, shoulders squared like she’s going into battle.

I watch her for a second before falling into step behind her, grinning like an idiot—but something twists in my chest. Something deeper than amusement. Because this morning shouldn’t have meant much. It was just a drop-off. Just a routine.

But it didn’t feel like nothing.

It felt like something settling into place. Familiar. Heavy. Real.

Maybe that’s what scares me most—realizing I’ll do just about anything to protect this strange little shape we’ve started to carve out together. Her. That boy. Us. I don’t know what the hell we are yet, but I know what I’m afraid to lose.

For the first time in a long time, it feels like everything is within reach, she is within reach.

I leave work early just to make sure I’ll be home in time. Not because I have to—because I want to. Because I know damn well Lou will be wearing a hole in the floor waiting to go pick Dallas up from school. She keeps telling me she is leaving, acting like this is all temporary. But the thing is, she doesn’t say it like a woman ready to walk away—she says it like she is begging herself to believe it.

When I step inside, the place is quiet. I don’t hear the TV or music or the sound of her pacing. Just the soft hum of the air conditioner and the distant tick of the kitchen clock. Then I see her—curled up at the table, her long legs drawn to her chest, chin resting on her knees, hair hanging loose around her face. There’s a softness to her like this, something almost sacred in the stillness. But what stops me cold is what’s on the table.

The sketchbook.

The one I found tucked away in Murphy’s office, like it had been buried and forgotten. I’d slipped it out without a word, just in case. Just in case her stubborn ass was ever ready to admit she needed it.

Surprise, fucking surprise, she did.

She doesn’t even flinch when I say, “Honey, I’m home.” Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t blink. She’s completely somewhere else, and I know exactly where—inside whatever world she’s pulling onto the paper.

I move in slowly, eyes drifting over the pages she’s spread out across the table. A few are old—faded pencil sketches of Sophie when she was little, one of Mama by the stove—but the rest? The rest are today. Fresh. Raw. There’s one of Dallas in the barber’s chair, his face set in that stubborn, stone-faced expression he wears like armor. Another of him asleep, curled on his side, something clutched tight in his fist. But then there’s the one that guts me.

Me and Dallas standing in a field of wildflowers, like something out of a dream—and Lou, drawn off to the side, under a giant oak tree. She’s curled in on herself, arms wrapped tight around her knees, watching us with a look of longing so fierce, so lonely, it practically bleeds off the page.

She’s still that girl who thinks love is a thing other people get to keep, and damn if that doesn’t set me ablaze.

I don’t say anything. I just take her in—the way her fingers still smudge the edge of the paper like she’s not ready to let go. The way her whole body leans toward the drawings even as she curls away from the idea of being in them. The way she drew herself apart from us lands like a sucker punch I don’t see coming.