This morning, Dillon was as nervous as I’ve ever seen him. He’s hiding it well now. His palms are open, sitting on his knees, and he doesn’t break eye contact with the judge.

The judge, sitting behind her polished walnut desk, studies the paperwork Dillon’s attorney has prepared in support of an emergency request for permanent legal custody of his niece and nephews.

Kimmie isn’t letting go easily. She’s seated at the desk opposite Dillon and his attorney, dressed in a pale blue jumpsuit with a tattered pair of orange crocs on her feet. She looks better than when I last saw her. Her hair is combed. Her face is clean. She’s no longer babbling, out of her mind, high on crystal meth—but she’s outraged, throwing daggers at Dillon with every sideways glance. She told the courtroom Dillon was a nosy busy-body who had interfered in her marriage and tried to manipulate her children against her ever since Jordan was born.

I’m no judge, but she’s not making a great impression on me.

“Mrs. Schmidt, as it stands now, I believe you’re facing multiple felony counts related to the manufacture with intent to distribute methamphetamine,” the judge observes. “Adding to that is another long list of child endangerment charges. Your children tested positive for exposure to methamphetamine, as well as other toxins related to the manufacture of the substance. At the time of your arrest, you appeared indifferent to the well-being of your children. Why should I believe you’d behave differently in the future?”

Kimmie clenches her jaw, staring at the judge. “I love my kids,” she almost hisses. “Anyone who says I don’t is a liar. I take care of my kids. Always did.”

The judge nods, unmoved. She turns toward Dillon and his attorney. “Mr. Manning should legal custody be granted to you, you’ll be responsible for the children, for their care and upkeep, their education, their healthcare and well-being, with no demand or expectation for assistance from the state of Virginia or from the children’s natural parents. You’ve indicated previously, you understand and accept these conditions?”

“I do, yes,” Dillon responds, standing to address her.

“Very well,” she says. “Mr. Manning, the court grants your request for permanent legal custody of the minor child, Jordan Eli Schmidt, the minor child, Emily Christine Schmidt, and the minor child, Joseph Dillon Schmidt. The court orders the termination of all parental rights and responsibilities of Kimberly Elizabeth Schmidt and Darryl Austin Schmidt.”

She strikes her gavel twice, sending a sharp crack echoing around the courtroom. “So ordered.”

Kimmie jumps to her feet, shouting obscenities at the judge and Dillon in turns.

“Bailiff, please escort Mrs. Schmidt out of the courtroom!” the judge snaps. “Mrs. Schmidt, I’ll hold you in contempt if you don’t quiet down!”

Dillon’s expression reveals a complicated combination of relief and regret. “I’m sorry, Kimmie,” he mouths across the gulf between them. “It’s for the kids.”

“Fuck you! You back-stabbing faggot!”

His jaw clenches tight, eyes fixed sternly on hers. He could hurl a thousand insults more damning against her; instead he rises above it as his attorney pats him on the back, offering congratulations.

Gil Steele is here, along with Ginny, Carrie, and Kendall, as well as Dillon’s supervisor at the fire department. All spoke briefly to the court, vouching as character witnesses on Dillon’s behalf. After handshakes, hugs, and words of support, everyone else makes their way home or back to work. It’s just Dillon and me left after the courtroom is cleared, the bailiff shooing us into the corridor so he can prepare for the next session.

“That went a lot better than I thought it might,” Dillon confesses, his posture finally relaxing after a couple of days of high anxiety leading up to this event. “Kimmie’s pissed, but she looks a lot better. Healthier. Don’t you think so?”

I nod, amazed he can find a bright side regarding his sister. “Yeah, she looked a lot better. You look relieved.”

He smiles a little, then breaks out into a beaming grin. “We did it! We got the kids! No more visits from CPS. No more shade from the school principle or their teachers. We did it!”

I had very little to do with that part. I’ve just been handy for cooking, cleaning, boo-boo’s, and bedtime stories. The kids have warmed to me, especially Joey and Chrissy. Jordan will take a little more time.

“You did it,” I say. “This was all you.”

I check my watch. It’s not even ten a.m. The kids started school last week and we don’t have to pick them up ‘til three. Dillon and I both took the whole day off because we weren’t sure whether the hearing would drag on until late in the afternoon.

“You want to go get something to eat?” I ask, feeling Dillon out. “Or… maybe… spend our day off celebrating some other way?”

We’ve only had the kids a few weeks, but in that time, they’ve commandeered every spare moment between our jobs and other obligations. There hasn’t been any time for us.

A tiny, roguish smile turns one corner of Dillon’s lip. His blue eyes brighten, one eyebrow arching mischievously.

“Celebrate,” he says. “Most definitely.”

* * *

“Damn, I missed this,” Dillon growls, his breath warming my neck, his lips pressed hard against my flesh.

We’re not even in the front door before his hands slip around my waist, tugging at my borrowed dress shirt (my attempt at looking the part of the supportive partner in court.) He buries his nose in the crook of my neck, lapping and nipping, while his hands pull at my necktie, loosening it, yanking it free.

He walks me backward until I’m against the foyer wall, his powerful body pressing me flat. His lips move up and find mine, parting them aggressively. His tongue on mine tastes of sweet morning coffee and remembered kisses. His scent, a mixture of spicy aftershave and citrus shampoo, slips into my nostrils, reminding me just how much I adore this man and how we feel together.

“Bedroom,” he huffs between impatient kisses, grabbing my waistband, pulling my hips tight against his. “You and me naked. Now.”

I reach down, letting my hand come to rest between his legs, my fingers circling an impressive hard-on trapped behind layers of cloth.

“So ready,” I whisper, teasing him. “In such a hurry.” I nip his bottom lip, catching it between my teeth, biting suggestively before letting it slip away. I give his cock a firm squeeze, causing him to moan, his eyelids fluttering in response. “We’ve got hours, let’s make it last.”

Dillon pulls back, smirking at me. “Fuck that!” he chirps. “I’ve got enough pent-up energy, I could go for days.”

Something tells me he means it. I feel exactly the same.

“Let’s see about that.” I tug his zipper eagerly, releasing his fly and the fastener on his slacks. I drop to my knees, pulling his pants down away from his hips without a damn drop of pretense.

Dillon’s generously-sized cock pops up, firm and ready, begging for my attention.

“Damn,” he whispers, looking down into my eyes, one hand instinctively falling behind my head.

I take his length in hand, pushing back the protective foreskin separating me from my aim. A drop of pre-cum erupts from his tip, threatening to drip before I catch it on my tongue and savor it with an indulgent swirl. I wrap my lips around the head of his cock, my tongue tracing every curve and contour with attentive precision, gently sucking before taking him deeper into my mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” Dillon moans, his head rolling back, both hands gripping my head, his hips rocking slightly, feeding me more and more. “Feels so good… missed this… missed you…”

Good. I don’t want him to ever forget.

Dillon likes it deep and slow, so I get low, opening my throat, relaxing into him, breathing through my nose. My left hand circles around his thigh, reaching up to grasp an ass cheek, pulling him closer. My right hand lifts his balls, rolling them gently as I move up and down his length with my mouth. It’s my personal pleasure to swallow him deeper and deeper, lap my tongue against every sensitive spot from base to head.

“Fuck, you’re good at that,” he huffs, his torso bending, his body tensing.

I feel the first spasm shudder over his balls, rolling them in my hand.

“Mmm…” I moan, letting the vibration tremble him, shoving him closer to the edge.

“Unh…” His grip on my head presses me even closer. “I’m—”

All at once he breaks, his balls quaking. A long-held flow of hot cum fills my mouth and floods down my throat as Dillon lets out another shuddering groan. I instinctively swallow without altering my stroke, letting him shove his orgasm into me, letting him feel every sweet inch of my enjoyment in bringing him here.

“Oh, God… Oh, sweet Jesus,” Dillon huffs, whining. His fingers twitch roughly in my hair. “Aw fuck.”

When he’s done, he’s a quivering heap, teetering on shaky legs. Looking up, he’s a beautiful sight to behold; his eyes are dazed over in bliss.

“C’mon,” I say, taking his hands in mine, getting to my feet. “Come with me.”

I take us to the bedroom, finishing the job of undressing us both while Dillon moans, attempting and failing to return to his senses. While he nurses his post-orgasm delirium, I climb on top of him showering him with kisses and soft bites, allowing the edges of my teeth to tease his skin, tugging at sensitive nipples, making him shiver.

As soon as he’s roused enough to think and speak, I drop on a propped elbow beside him, my fingers resting at his belly, playing with the soft tuft of curls tracing a path down to his delicious cock.

“Your turn,” I whisper, pressing my stiff length against his thigh. “And when you’re done sucking me dry, I hope you’ll get so far inside of me, you’ll never want to pull out.”

Dillon’s pupils contract. His dreamy expression shifts to an impish grin. “God damn, Jack. You’re beautiful, and fucking hot, and you have a nasty mind and dirty mouth and I really like it.”

He rolls to his hands, hovering above me, muscles flexed, a hungry expression darkening his eyes, his mouth open, ready to do things I know will make me weep. His cock is already hard again, and he shoves it against mine with deep hip thrusts, teasing me.

“Go down,” I urge, pressing my hands on the top of his shoulders, moving him lower.

He looks up at me, never taking his eyes off mine. He’s sinfully slow, deliberate. His tongue and teeth lavish wild attention on me, so much yet somehow not enough.

An hour later, maybe more, I’m prone, face down. My knees are pulled up to my chest as Dillon drapes over me from behind, splitting me wider than I should admit he can. His weight on me shoves the breath from my lungs. His strong hands on my hips and shoulder bruise me deliciously. The pain is exquisite, deep, intense, and brutally perfect. Tears stream from my eyes. I’m choked with emotion, unable to speak, only able to cry out, begging for more.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he huffs against the back of my neck, his beard scraping sensitive skin. “So tight. So fucking hot—”

“I love you so much,” I whimper, my voice lost in the soaked sheets, my hands gripping, making fists in the drenched linens beneath us. “Love you…”

Dillon drives deep, slowing, drawing out then splitting me in two with each inward thrust.

“Oh, fuck,” he growls, hands grasping my shoulders, pulling me down. “Fucking hell…”

His cock swells inside me, then gushes, filling me up with wave after wave of surging electricity. I cum, crying into the pillows, my cock aching from base to tip and piqued to stimulation.

My entire body shudders, weak, incapacitated, a hazy dreamlike fugue washing over me as Dillon ceases moving, settling instead into a heaving, over-heated stillness; his weight the most immobilizing, perfect domination I’ve ever known.

We were built for this; built for one another. We fit.

“God damn,” Dillon whispers softly, his breath hot on my back. “I love this.”

He loves this… but not me.

A few minutes later and we’re separate beings again. Somehow the emptiness rings hollower than it usually would.

Dillon pulls me close, cradling me inside his chest.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod, staying quiet.

I want to believe this thing we have means as much to him as it does to me. I want to believe I’m enough. Usually, after sex, he pulls away, putting physical and emotional space between us. I don’t want to give him cause. If he did that now, after everything we’ve been through, I know it would break me to pieces.

Neither of us say anything. We lie together in the stillness with midday sunlight tracing into the room through half-shaded blinds, air from the AC cooling us. I close my eyes, hoping to shove the doubts from my head. Instead I choose to feel Dillon’s strong hands wrapped around me, feeling the weight of his leg draped over my hip.

Next comes dreams. Shadows loom over me, cowering me. I hear children crying, see smoke and flames. Sirens wail.

I start, coming awake with a jolt.

In the distance I hear a siren howling—it’s a fire truck from the station downtown a few blocks away. Dillon is sitting up, his phone in his hand.

“Shit,” he mutters, peering at the screen.

“What? What is it?”

He glances at me, then back at the text on his phone. “Fire at Promise Landing Apartments. Fully engaged. I gotta go!”

He bolts out of bed, pulling on jeans and a shirt from his closet, bouncing on one leg as he jams his foot into a shoe.

“I’ll call you,” he says. “Don’t forget to pick the kids up from school. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

In another moment, before I can even clear my head, he’s gone and I’m left in bed, sticky with sweat from our lovemaking, feeling his absence more keenly than I want.

Outside the windows I hear sirens raging from emergency vehicles coming into Abingdon from every direction. Apartment fires are the worst. They spread fast, destroying multiple homes, causing injuries and even taking lives. On any other day I’d follow Dillon to the scene, but someone’s got to get the kids from school. I’ll be glad when the kids are comfortable enough with their new routine to take the bus.

* * *

With Dillon gone to tend to the fire, I’m left with car line at Meadowview Primary School, which takes nearly forty-five minutes. I’m staring at an endless stream of nothing my phone, waiting in the dangerous silence of my car.

Maybe he didn’t hear me. Or maybe he didn’t want to say it. Because he doesn’t love me.

The thoughts cycle through my head, repeating over and over again. I try to stop the raging worry, but I can’t. Not even a little bit. I’ve been caught up with Dillon, taking care of his family, getting in deeper and deeper, falling more and more in love. And in love with these kids, too.

An involuntary smile crosses my face when I see the Chrissy and Joey standing in front of the school. I unlock the doors, and the silence is suddenly broken by a cascade of kids’ bodies and backpacks.

“Come on, pile in,” I urge. Chrissy and Joey climb in the back of the car, hands still linked together. She meets her little brother outside his classroom every afternoon and walks him to the pick-up area, holding tight to his hand. The only time Chrissy and Joey are separated is when they’re in class. She dotes on him like he’s a broken-winged bird, needing protection from predators.

Among the three kids, Joey has made the transition to life at Dillon’s better than the rest. He’s emerging from his shell, smiling, playing, and he’s affectionate, seeking out cuddles and back-rubs, always begging physical closeness. He’s a sweet kid, so different from Jordan and Chrissy, who’ve remained generally standoffish. Though, Chrissy is slowly softening toward me.

“How was school?” I ask. “Tell me all then news.”

“We made A’s and B’s and C’s,” Joey says, his voice happy and bright. “I drew a picture of an apple, and a boat, and a cat. But my cat was a kitten. Can we have a kitten?”

“We’ll see,” I reply, smiling at him. “That’ll be up to Uncle Dillon.”

Chrissy peers off into the crowd of a million kids, all finding their way, looking for cars to jump into, or lining up for busses.

“Jordan had to stay after,” she says. “He’s writing sentences. He’s going to be late.”

“What’s he writing sentences for?” I ask, recalling my tragic days after school writing, ‘I will not talk in class,’ at least a thousand times on ruled notebook paper in punishment for my chatty indiscipline in fifth grade.

“He swore at Mrs. Mclaughlin,” she says. “He called her a bitch.”

Jesus. There’s going to be a note from teacher. I pull my car over to the parking lot beside Meadowview Middle School, anxiety swirling inside of my stomach. Jordan has issues— anger management issues.

“He shouldn’t have done that,” I say. I lean my head against the steering wheel. “But he’ll be okay.”

“What happened in court today?” Chrissy asks, her eyes fixing on mine. “Did you see Mama?”

This falls to me? Chrissy is nine-years-old going on forty-two. She’s no-nonsense, always getting straight to the point. There’s no beating around the bush with her.

“I saw your mom,” I say. “She was okay. She looked good. She’s really worried about you guys, but the judge promised her we’d take good care of you. You’re staying with Dillon. The judge made that permanent, so no more Child Protective Services. No more strangers poking around.”

Chrissy’s expression remains passive.

“Where’s Uncle Dillon?” she asks. “I thought he had today off.”

“He did,” I say. “But there’s a fire, and he got called in. He’ll be back tonight, I hope, by dinnertime.”

We wait half an hour beyond the final bell. All the other cars clear out. All the kids disperse. Finally, Jordan appears, hauling his backpack on rounded shoulders, a look of seething anger pulling his features. I open the passenger door for him. He climbs in without a word.

“Rough day?” I ask, trying to keep upbeat.

“School sucks,” he says, deadpan. “I hate it. I suck.”

I put the car in drive, pulling out of the parking lot.

“Sometimes school sucks,” I admit. “And sometimes, we just suck at school. It’s hard to know which it is, some days. The thing you need to know, is that no matter what, you don’t suck. You’re just living in a sucky world right now, but it won’t always be that way. I promise.”

Jordan turns to me, giving me a straight-up, dubious expression. “That’s some stupid psycho-babble,” he says. “This shit would suck a lot less if everyone didn’t know my mom was a meth-head and my dad was a drug dealer.”

Fuck. Even the kids at school know? Life in a small-town blows when you’re eleven.

“Chrissy, tell your brother about court today. Maybe that’ll improve his outlook,” I suggest, turning my car toward Dillon’s house.

Chrissy does her best, but Jordan remains unconvinced his circumstances will ever improve.

I make a mental note to tell Dillon what happened with Jordan, so they can have a talk. I could probably do it, but I have the feeling it’ll make a bigger impression coming from Dillon.

Turning the corner, approaching the driveway at Dillon’s house, I spot a rusty blue pick-up truck parked in the driveway where I usually park. An older man with a scruffy gray beard and longish, salty hair leans against the truck, his arms crossed over his chest, tapping his booted toe impatiently.

“Oh shit,” Jordan mutters, turning his head toward the back to look at his sister.

I glance in the rearview. Chrissy’s staring ahead, her eyes, wide and anxious, fixed on the man. Joey, similarly, has set his attention on the man, but his expression isn’t as masked. There’s terror in his eyes.

“Who’s that?” I ask Jordan.

He looks over at me from the passenger’s side of the car, his expression wary.

“Grandpa,” he says.

Okay. This should be interesting.

I roll into the driveway beside his truck, pulling alongside him so he’ll have to move for me to open my door. I glance back in the rearview.

“Chrissy, take Joey out your side,” I instruct her, handing the house key to Jordan. “Take them inside and stay there,” I tell him, measuring my tone.

For some reason, the kids don’t like this guy, so I don’t like—or trust—him either.

I open my door, forcing him to move back, while I step out to face him. The kids exit the car on the other side, safely away from him.

His eyes are not on me, though I’m standing only two feet away from him. His eyes are on the kids, watching them pile out, then make their way to the house at pace. I turn around to make sure that Jordan locks the door behind all three of them. He does. I see him watching me through the window of Dillon’s living room.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

The old man turns his gaze to me, looking me up and down as if he’s sizing me up for a confrontation. Satisfied with his assessment, he takes a long breath, then drops his arms to his sides.

“I came to see the kids,” he says, his tone hollow, almost threatening. “I’m their grandpa, Henry Schmidt. I just found out about that move you pulled at court this morning. Nobody notified me. I got rights. I plan to exercise ‘em. You can’t stop me from seein’ my grandkids.”

“I think you’ve made a mistake,” I say calmly. “I’m not Dillon. You’ll have to take up your request with him. He’s the kids’ legal guardian.”

A moment of confusion confounds Henry’s sun-weathered face. He blinks, crossing his arms again. “Who are you?” he asks.

None of your fucking business, asshole.

I force a smile, offering my hand to shake. “Jack,” I say. “Dillon’s boyfriend.”

He stares a me a second, then one eyebrow raises as he huffs out his disapproval. He looks at my hand, then takes a step back.

“Queer,” he spits. “Sodomite.”

I smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard that one. Ten points for creativity.”

Henry ignores me. “You and Dillon Manning are performing unnatural acts under the same roof as my grandchildren. You’re a perversion against God! I’ll see those children taken out from under this house of fornication, and I’ll see you and Dillon Manning in hell!”

It’s impossible not to laugh in the face of wrath the likes of which this clown has conjured. I don’t even try to suppress it. I laugh, not mentioning that we have two to three kids in bed with us each night. We’ve barely touched since they moved in with us. Unlike the rest of their family, we’ve prioritized the kids. Looking at the guy’s grizzled, angry face, I don’t think that argument will go over well.

“Judge not, lest ye be judged,” I reply smirking, withdrawing my hand. “And there’s that whole bit about love thy neighbor, but I guess that’s not in your version of the gospel.”

He takes another step back, his eyes darting toward the house. I hear the door unlock and then open. I turn, following his line of sight and see Jordan standing on the front porch, a defiant expression squaring his jaw.

“Go back in the house, Jordan,” I call out, raising my hand and pointing.

“Jordan, you don’t have to do a thing this blasphemer says,” the man calls to Jordan, his voice loud and angry. “He’s a damned soul. He’s going to burn in hell and he wants you to burn with him!”

“Jordan, go inside the house. Now!” I say sharply, raising my voice. Jordan reluctantly backs away, retreating into the house. I return my attention to the man standing in front of me, feeling a warm wave of anger simmering deep in my core. “I think it’s time for you to go, Henry.”

He regards me with unmasked disdain, his eyes narrowed in anger. “I’ll be back,” he spits. “And next time it’ll be to take my grandchildren out of this goddamn place.”

I watch him get in his truck, engine crackling angrily as he fires it up. He pulls out, burning rubber as he retreats down the street. I don’t take my eyes off his truck until it’s out of sight. Only then do I take a breath, centering myself, finding my calm. It takes a great deal to make me angry, and even more to make me act on it. That man has the capacity to do both.

When I turn, all three kids are on the porch, all staring at me, wide eyed.

“The show’s over,” I assure them, offering a wan smile. “Let’s go inside and get a snack.”

They don’t move, even as I approach the front door, holding it wide for them.

“He’s going to take us away to live with him, isn’t he?” Jordan asks, his expression dark.

I shake my head. “No,” I try to reassure him. “You’re all staying right here. Dillon won’t let anyone take you away. You live here now.”

“What about you?” Chrissy asks, her jaw trembling. “Will you keep us here too?”

“You won’t let him come back, will you?” Joey asks, his tone insistent. “You won’t let him take us away?”

What do I tell them? Do I tell them I’m powerless in this equation? I feel powerless. I’m good for rides to and from school, and snacks, and hugs. At the end of the day, however, I can’t do anything real to protect them. All that power lies with Dillon.

“Jack can’t do a damn thing, you morons. He’s just the boyfriend.” Jordan says, shaking his head, walking away.

“Is that true?” Chrissy asks.

“I’ll never let anything happen to you. I’m right here,” I say, lacking any more substantial response. “I’m not going anywhere.”

If only I knew for certain that’s true.

I love these kids, and they’re starting to rely on me. I have no doubts at all about Dillon’s commitment to them, but his commitment to me is still very much up for question. If he flakes or changes his mind about me, it’s going to hurt these kids as much as it hurts me. The longer he waits to flake, the worse it’s going to be.