My throat closes.
“Language,” I say because I need something normal to say before I cry.
Derby glances at me. “I said apparently.”
“You said damn.”
“Could’ve said worse.”
“He’s five.”
“He lives in Hell now. Might as well build vocabulary.”
“Derby.”
His mouth twitches. “Fine. I’ll try.”
August throws the blanket off and crawls toward the edge of the bed. “Do you have breakfast?”
“I personally don’t carry breakfast in my pockets.”
“Why?”
Derby opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Looks at me.
I lift one brow.
He looks back at August. “Because eggs are slippery.”
August laughs.
A real laugh.
Not a polite laugh. Not a nervous one. A little-boy laugh, bright and surprised, like something escaped him before he could decide whether laughter was safe.
Derby freezes.
I do too.
That laugh fills the room like morning light.
I want to bottle it. Hide it. Protect it from every man who ever taught my child to listen for anger before joy.
Footsteps sound down the hall before I can say anything.
Derby steps away from the doorway, and Sophie appears carrying a tray with coffee, two biscuits wrapped in a towel, a cup of milk, and a small plate of scrambled eggs. She looks like she has already been awake for hours. Her hair is pulled back, her face fresh, her boots quiet against the floor. Somehow, in an old MC clubhouse at what has to be too early, she still looks like she knows exactly where she is supposed to stand.
“Good morning,” she says.
August perks up. “Breakfast.”
“I was told eggs are slippery, so I put them on a plate.”
He nods seriously. “Good.”