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My knee bounces restlessly as we inch forward in the school pickup line. “Fuck! Does nobody put their kid on the damn bus anymore? This is going to take forever.”

We’re crawling at a glacial pace, and my mind’s moving faster than traffic. All I can think about is laying eyes on that mouthy little boy with the blonde hair and sad eyes.

A warm hand settles on my knee, steadying the bounce. Henry. He gives it a soft squeeze. “School just started. Some parents are still figuring out the routine—probably want to see their kid’s face at the end of the day before trusting the bus.”

I huff. “Well, I’m not worried about little Timmy and his emotional journey home. I’m worried about Dallas. I want to know if his day was okay—or if I need to go in there and raise hell.”

Henry chuckles, that rich timbre of his voice filling the cab. “And here I was under the impression I’d satisfied your need to draw blood—for at least a little while.”

I whip around to face him. “You spent the last hour edging me like your life depended on it.”

He smirks, smug as hell. “Had ghosts to satisfy and all that.”

“And you stole my fucking panties!” I snap, leaning across the console and jabbing a finger toward his face.

“Ha! You call that tiny scrap of fabric panties?” He traces his mustache with infuriating calm. “How could I not steal them? Especially after you fucking ruined them for me.”

“You motherfu—” The rest dies on my tongue as I glance out the window…and there he is.

Dallas.

My breath hitches, and I sit up straighter, eyes scanning him fast—like I’m bracing for something to be wrong. But he’s in one piece. No bruises, no busted lip. Just standing there, hands in his pockets, talking to a stocky little redhead with a face full of freckles.

He’s not smiling exactly, but he’s not shut down either. Not guarded in that way that makes my chest ache.

Just like that, some tight, invisible grip inside me lets go. Not all the way—but enough.

“See, told you wildflower, he’s still all in one piece,” Henry whispers into the shell of my ear.

“Yeah, yeah.”

I roll the window down and call out, “Ready to blow this popsicle stand?”

Dallas all but sprints to the car like something might grab him if he slows down, and when his eyes land on me, his whole face shifts. Lights up. Like maybe I’m the one thing he was waiting for all damn day.

It guts me—because I don’t know if I deserve that kind of light. Not from him. Not when I’m still trying to convince myself I’m worthy of holding it.

Henry beats me to the question I’m too afraid to ask. “Well, what’d you think?”

Dallas shrugs, yanking the door shut behind him and flopping into the seat like he’s dropping a heavy weight. “Food was shit,” he says flatly, his voice barely hiding the edge of disappointment. Then he pauses, eyes drifting out the window like he’s searching for something beyond the passing street. “But the people…weren’t so bad.”

His words hang between us—simple, but loaded. Not exactly a glowing review, but maybe the tiniest crack in the armor. I catch the flicker of something softer in his tone, something hopeful that he probably doesn’t even realize is there yet.

I keep my voice steady, careful not to let anything slip. “Well, that’s…something.”

He tries to dump his backpack the second he storms through the door, but I know damn well—thanks to Charlie and Bash—that Dallas has papers for me. Maybe even some homework, since school started a few weeks ago.

I stand there, arms crossed, watching him try to slide past me like it’s no big deal. But there’s no way he’s off the hook that easy. “Oh no you don’t. Backpack on the table. Now.”

Thank God I wiped that fucker down before I left earlier—because one glance at it has me blushing from my head to my toes. The way Henry dominated me and took command of my body…Good God, but that’s not what I need to focus on.

With a heavy sigh, Dallas trails behind me and plops down at the kitchen table while I start rifling through his backpack. Everything’s surprisingly neat—folders stacked just right, papers uncrumpled, notebooks aligned like some kind of order I never expected.

Honestly? It makes me fucking sad. He’s still a little boy. There should be at least one doodle scribbled in the margins, some chaos on a page. Not this sterile, almost OCD-level neatness. Something I know he’s not, judging by the state of his room after only a week.

I open his folder and find his teacher's information sheet and stifle a laugh. “Henry!”

“Yeah,” he calls back before filling the doorway with the first two buttons of his uniform undone, kitchen towel slung over one broad shoulder. “You rang, Wildflower?”