I wake up, instantly alert. I wasn’t planning on going to sleep, but Rory is energetic in bed and fuck if she didn’t work me hard and wring me dry. I blink a couple of times listening for movement in the house. My bed is empty which means Rory is either wandering around or she’s gone home. I hear nothing from her side of the wall, but I do hear muffled sounds coming from the kitchen.

I stand up, my cock already half-standing at attention. I shake my head.

“Down boy. My fucking balls are sore,” I grumble. I go to the closet and grab a pair of jeans, sliding them on. I do my best to arrange my dick so he’s not sticking out like a damn pole… I mostly succeed. I go in the bathroom and see to myself, as well as wash my hands and splash water on my face. I pull my fingers through my hair and snag a band to put the damn shit up.

Growing up, my hair was a big fuck you to my father who thought a man was only man if his hair was cut short, his nose was clean and he worked a nine to five job day in and day out—only stopping to go to church on Sundays. It might have been okay, but I’m pretty fucking sure whatever he asked forgiveness for on Sundays didn’t include beating the shit out of his wife or son.

Still my parents were long gone and I’d been kicking around the thought of cutting the shit off. If for no other reason it might make me less recognizable to enemies if they see me out.

Something to think about.

I grab a Megadeath T-shirt and slip it on before heading to the kitchen to see what Rory is doing. When I get there what I see has this pain in my chest so intense it stops me in my tracks. It feels like a damn hand has wrapped around my heart.

Squeezing.

Rory is laughing with Ryan. They’re at the bar and Ryan is stirring something in a bowl. There’s flour all over them and some on Ryan’s face. There actually might be more flour on the bar than there is in the bowl—I’d have to look and see, but there’s a lot. Rory doesn’t seem to mind. She’s laughing and when a big plume of flour dust hits her face because Ryan stops mixing whatever this is to help Rory pour more flour in… she doesn’t snap. She laughs. What happens next just makes that pain in my chest increase a million fucking times.

Ryan laughs.

How long has it been since I’ve heard my son’s laughter?

How fucking long has it been?

It’s not a little laugh either. He’s happy.

It’s a full happy laugh that comes from the inside and makes its way out. The sound so fucking good, so fucking joyful that it makes me realize that I haven’t heard it in years. I’ve been so busy trying to protect him, to warn him against danger, to make him alert that he should never let his guard down… that I forgot he was a kid.

A kid who needed to have fun. A kid who needed to laugh. A kid who needed soft touches…

That motherfucking hand squeezing my heart goes so tight, so painful that if I wasn’t leaning on the doorway opening… I’d be brought down to my knees.

Neither one of them know that I’m there. They’re lost in their own little world. Rory reaches down and ruffles Ryan’s hair. It’s just a simple touch, but when my son looks up at her, it’s with adoration that shines—even from where I’m standing.

Fuck.

My motherfucking heart is being ripped out of my chest now. I need to protect Ryan. I like Rory. I love fucking her and I like how she makes me feel, but I should have taken precautions to shield Ryan from her.

What in the hell was I thinking?

What if she hurts him?

“Dad! We’re making pancakes!” Ryan exclaims, his voice full of excitement.

I feel like my skin is fucking crawling. Like I need to claw myself from the inside out to fight the urge to grab my son and take off running.

“You’re going to be late for school,” I answer instead and my voice is gruff, but I’ve got too much shit in my head for it to be any other way.

“Rory says everybody has to have a good breakfast to start their day,” Ryan argues.

“Is that so?” I ask, my voice still tight.

“It’s just pancakes, Noah. I’m sorry. It won’t take long.”

That comes from Rory. I haven’t worked up my courage to turn my eyes to her yet, or to speak to her. I’m not sure I know what I want to say to her—besides get away from my boy, which is not exactly fair, but that’s the emotion running through me.

I swallow as I watch the way Rory’s hand contracts in Ryan’s hair and then slowly leaves.

“I want pancakes,” Ryan insists, his voice hurt and I know he’s missing Rory’s touch because as I watched it leave his head… I missed it.

I clear my throat, still not raising my eyes to Rory. My gaze still frozen on Ryan. I swallow down the bile of bitterness and fear that threaten to pull me under and then I give my son a smile. It’s a fake smile—not like the ones Rory pulled out of me yesterday, but I doubt he can tell that.

“Guess we’re eating pancakes,” I announce and instantly get awarded with my son screaming.

“Yay!”

When my boy looks at me with his tiny face so happy that his grin takes over…. My own smile stops being fake.

I’ll give him pancakes.

What can be the harm in that?