Keefe was smiling.
Then his cheeks went pink. He wrung his fingers nervously.
"Keefe, what is it?" I ask, concerned. He shrugs, hugging himself.
I reach out a hand to put on his shoulder, and his gaze softens when I do. "Foster..." he whispers, covering my hand with his. He clasps my fingers and runs his thumb over my palm.
"You can tell me anything," I tell him, smiling just for him.
"Okay..." he replies unsteadily. His head leans to the side and he hesitantly starts, "So, hypothetically, um..."
"Hypothetically?" I urge him.
Keefe begins, his eyes shining with hope.