Kimberly
"What the hell is this?"
Jeffrey's voice cuts through the night like a blade, sharp and accusing. He's standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, his body tense like a rubber band pulled too tight.
I freeze.
My lips are still tingling from Tommy's kiss. His touch from his hands still warm on my waist. But everything inside me goes cold.
Shit.
I pull back slightly. My brain goes white-noise blank, panic pushing into my throat like a rising tide. I glance up at Tommy, then back to Jeffrey. He's not just looking at us. He's seeing us. Putting something together.
No.
Not like this.
Not yet.
This isn't just a kid catching his mom on the porch with someone. This is Jeffrey. The one who carries the most pieces of his father's shadow. The one who notices too much and says too little. And right now, I see it…he's not confused.
He's angry.
His eyes flick between me and Tommy, jaw grinding, his fists clenching at his sides.
God. He looks just like Travis when he used to get like this. When his voice would drop low and cold, when he'd retreat behind that wall of resentment I could never scale.
And just like that, a memory hits me.
Jeffrey was six. Maybe seven. I'd been up all night with Maddox, who was barely a month old. I was rocking him in my room, bone-tired, in one of those worn old nursing tanks stained with breastmilk and desperation. And Jeffrey, with his stuffed bear tucked under his arm, came padding into my room in footie pajamas, confused and quiet.
"Why is Daddy outside with some lady?" he'd asked me.
I remember the way my stomach dropped.
I'd told him it was nothing. That Daddy was probably just on the phone. That he was tired and dreaming.
But twenty minutes later, Travis's text lit up on my screen: Out with the guys. Don't wait up.
Liar.
And Jeffrey knew it. Even at six, he knew.
He didn't say anything the next morning. He just looked at me with those same eyes he's using right now.
And ever since… he's watched. He's noticed. He remembers more than he lets on.
And now here I am, flushed and breathless, standing on the porch with a man. Not his father. Not someone he understands. Just… someone I told myself I was never going to give a chance.
"Jeffrey," I start, voice soft, trying to keep my face calm, but my pulse is hammering in my throat. "It's late. I didn't know you were still up."
Tommy's hands leave my waist slowly, like he's trying not to startle a wild animal.
"I was just dropping by," Tommy says casually, stepping back half an inch. "To let your mom know about the game coming up."
Jeffrey's expression hardens.
"The game against Reefside?" His voice is flat.
Tommy nods. "Yeah. Just wanted to make sure she knew."
Jeffrey raises his eyebrows, his tone dry. "And that couldn't wait until morning? Or practice? Or, I don't know—work?"
There's a pause. Tommy gives this small smile, almost amused. Like he knows how ridiculous he must sound, and also doesn't care.
"I was in the area."
Jeffrey doesn't even blink. "Funny. I already told her about the game this afternoon."
Boom.
Direct hit.
The silence is suffocating.
I reach out, placing my hand gently on Jeffrey's arm. "Hey. Why don't you head back to bed, sweetheart?"
He flinches just slightly, pulling his arm away. He stares at Tommy like he's trying to read him like a book he doesn't want to understand.
Then he looks at me. And it's worse.
Because I can feel what he's thinking: You're just like Dad.
My throat tightens.
"I think I'll stick around for a bit," he says softly. "Just to make sure you get inside okay, Mom."
God, he's twelve going on thirty.
I almost laugh, but it's too sad to be funny. My little protector. The one who doesn't trust easily anymore. The one I've spent the last six years trying to shield.
"Okay," I murmur. "Let's head in together, yeah?"
I turn to Tommy, heart sinking. We barely got two minutes. And now it feels like we're back at square one.
We need to tell them. There's no denying it anymore. But I have to be sure. I can't risk their hearts. Not unless I know Tommy's not going to walk awayonce I open the door for him, because this isn't just about me, this is about them.
I give him a quiet, apologetic smile.
"Goodnight, Tommy," I say softly. "Thanks for stopping by."
His eyes linger on mine, and I know what he's feeling because I feel it too. The ache. The tension. The unfinished sentence we didn't get to speak.
"Night, Kim," he says quietly.
I place both hands on Jeffrey's shoulders and guide him inside.
And even though I'm walking away from Tommy, I can still feel the weight of him behind me.
Still feel what I'm risking.
Still feel what I want.
And I don't know yet if those things can ever truly exist in the same place.
I close the door behind me and let out a quiet breath. The air in the house feels thicker than it did before. The kind of silence that has weight.
Jeffrey walks slowly toward the stairs, his socked feet barely making a sound against the hardwood. But I can hear his breathing. Steady, quiet, a little too controlled. He pauses at the base of the steps and turns.
His eyes find mine.
There's a million questions in that gaze. All unspoken. All dangerous.
"Is there something I need to know?" he asks, voice low. Not accusing, just… guarded. Like he's building walls as fast as I'm trying to tear them down.
"About?"
"About Coach." His jaw ticks. "About why he's here at ten-thirty. Why he had his hands on you."
Fuck.
I swallow the knot in my throat. Stay calm. Be the adult.
"Since we've been working together, Tommy and I have become close friends," I say carefully, crossing my arms to hide the tremble in my hands. "I was simply saying hello."
His expression doesn't shift. Not even a blink.
I hate how much he looks like Travis when he does that… emotionless, unreadable. But I know better. That blank face? It's a shield.
Jeffrey thinks about it, lips parting just slightly like he wants to say something else, but doesn't.
"If there's anything you need to know," I add gently, "I'll tell you."
He stares at me for a long moment. Then turns toward the stairs.
"Okay," he says quietly.
Just that.
Okay.
But it feels anything but.
He starts climbing, his pace slow. Deliberate. Like he's thinking with every step.
And then, halfway up, he stops. Doesn't look back.
"Is he going to leave too?" he asks.
I blink. "What?"
Jeffrey's voice is quiet, almost a whisper. "Like Dad left us… like your mom left you. Is he going to leave when he's tired of us?"
I feel my breath catch.
He's still facing the wall, his shoulders stiff, arms folded tight across his chest like he's bracing for whatever answer I give.
And I want to say no, I want to tell him that this feeling I have for Tommy is growing by the second and although he's never said it, I know it's the same for him. But I can't… because I don't know, because I'm trying to figure it out for myself, because I barely know him.
I step toward the stairs. "Hey…" My voice cracks, so I clear my throat and try again. "Sweetheart, I don't know what's going to happen. I really don't. But I can promise you this—I'm never going to let anyone walk in here and hurt you again."
He doesn't respond right away. Then, with a shrug so small it barely moves his shoulders, he finishes climbing and disappears down the hallway.
I stand alone at the bottom of the stairs, heart aching in my chest.
He's not mad because he saw me outside with Tommy.
He's mad because he remembers the aftermath of when he saw Travis do the same.
And now, I've become the question mark in his life.
The uncertainty.
The thing he's afraid of trusting.
Tommy
"Clean up on aisle twelve!"
Some teenager cackles as his friend slips on spilled strawberry smoothie, limbs flailing like he's auditioning for a stunt show.
Fucking kids.
Messy. Loud. Clueless.
Sticky fingers, oversized egos, and not a damn ounce of awareness. The Youth Center is basically a war zone disguised as a community service.
I sigh, snatching a mop from behind the counter. The floor's a disaster. Again. Blender whirring. Sneakers squeaking. Punching bags taking a beating. It's chaos and somehow, weirdly comforting.
This place shouldn't feel like home. But it does.
If I had a place like this as a teenager, I'd have been king of the fucking court. Smoothie in one hand, some girl's number in the other. Instead of being the adult cleaning up messes, I'd have been the mess.
Life's funny like that.
My gaze drifts across the center. Maddox is perched at a LEGO table like it's an engineering project at NASA. Tyler's in the gym, putting up reps like he's training for a movie montage. That kid has the kind of work ethic you can't teach.
Then there's Jeffrey.
Locker room. Alone.
Something's off.
He's too quiet today. Sure, he nailed a perfect throw to second, but the usual smart-ass commentary was missing. He didn't even mouth off at Jason when he complimented him.
Yeah. That's not nothing.
I head toward the locker room, towel slung around my neck, pretending I'm doing a casual walkthrough. I'm not.
Truth is, I've been meaning to talk to him. Ever since that night on Kimberly's porch.
Shit. That night's been replaying in my head on loop. His eyes. That wall he threw up.
I step into the locker room. It's quieter in here. Echoey. I hear the sound of a locker clanging shut and spot Jeffrey crouched down, shoving his cleats into his bag with more force than necessary.
"Hey," I say lightly, leaning against the lockers. "If you beat your gear to death, it won't play any better."
He glances up at me, then back down. "Didn't realize I was getting a lecture with my locker time."
Oof. There's the bite.
I smirk anyway. "It's a package deal. Life lessons and locker banter. Comes free with team membership."
No response.
He stands up and slings his backpack over one shoulder. And that's when I see it.
A bruise. Dark, blooming beneath the hem of his shirt, just above his ribs. Not a fresh one, but not old either.
And it's not in a place that sees much action during baseball. Not unless someone's sliding into him cleats-up, which I know didn't happen.
"Hey," I say, frowning slightly. "That from practice?"
He freezes. Doesn't answer.
I nod toward the mark. "The bruise. You wearing your chest guard during drills?"
He shrugs. "It's nothing."
Bullshit.
My eyes narrow. Something's not right.
"You sure that's from baseball?"
His jaw tenses. "Yeah."
Too fast. Too rehearsed.
I take a slow step forward, keeping my voice level. "Jeffrey."
Nothing.
"Where'd you really get that?"
He stiffens, his body language shifting like I just touched a nerve. He doesn't look up. Doesn't answer. Just fiddles with the zipper on his bag, like if he zips and unzips it enough times, I'll disappear.
Out on the streets, bruises were part of my armor. But Jeffrey's not out there surviving foster homes or sleeping in a shelter. He's in a neighborhood with freshly mowed lawns and two-car garages. He lives in a world where families eat dinner at the same time every night.
A place where being from a broken home isn't just different—it's a goddamn target.
"I said it's nothing."
"And I said I don't buy it."
His eyes flick up to mine—cold, guarded, older than any twelve-year-old's should be.
"I fell. At school."
I stare at him.
Silence stretches.
I've told that lie before.
Fell on the stairs. Fell off my bike. Fell into a fucking wall. Whatever story fit the bruise that week.
I crouch down to his level, resting my forearms on my knees.
"Jeffrey," I say carefully.
He doesn't look up.
"I can handle it."
There it is. The mask.
My jaw clenches. I've seen that look before. Worn it myself once.
"You still getting into fights at school?"
He rolls his eyes. "I'm not getting into fights."
I raise a brow.
"I'm finishing them."
Jesus Christ.
I sigh, standing back up and dragging a hand through my hair.
"Jeffrey…"
He shrugs. "What? You asked."
"That kind of attitude is exactly what landed you in the ED last time. Or did you forget that part?"
He flinches, just barely. But it's there.
"That wasn't my fault."
"I didn't say it was," I say calmly. "But your mom was a wreck that day."
He glares at me now, full force. "Yeah. I remember. I also remember you being a dick."
Fair. I was. But if I recall correctly, Jeffrey came at me with claws out.
And now here we are. He still hates me.
"You're right," I admit. "I was a dick. But I'm not here to fight with you."
"Well, good. 'Cause I'm not in the mood."
He slings his backpack over one shoulder and turns to leave, but I catch his voice before he disappears.
"I don't need my mom worrying about this," he snaps. "And she won't. Because you're not gonna open your big mouth and snitch."
That hits me sideways. I cross my arms.
"It's not snitching, kid. It's called looking out for someone."
He stops. Looks at me over his shoulder, eyes sharp.
"Yeah, well, no one asked you to."
Ouch.
But I don't flinch. I just nod, keeping my tone even.
"Not yet. But if you ever do… I'm here."
He stares at me, expression unreadable. Then, he scoffs, shaking his head.
"You don't know me."
"Nope," I say. "But I'm trying."
He goes quiet at that.
I don't push it. Just let the silence settle between us for a second.
"Look," I say finally, softer now. "You want to keep handling things on your own, fine. But if you get need anything… you tell me. No matter what it is."
He doesn't say anything. Doesn't nod. Doesn't thank me.
But that silence is loud.
Just when I think we might be done, he lifts his chin, "Actually there is something you can do for me."
"Sure." I pause, slightly afraid of what that could be. "What is it?"
"You should back off."
I blink, caught off guard. "What?"
He stares at me like I'm stupid. "My mom. Whatever you're doing… flirting, hanging around, pretending you care? Just stop."
The hell?
I fold my arms, my tone clipped. "Pretending I care?"
"You don't," he says bluntly. "You just feel bad for us. That's what this is, right? The single mom with three kids sob story? You think we need saving?"
Jesus Christ.
My jaw ticks as I fight the urge to laugh because it's insane how far off he is.
"No," I say, voice low. "I don't think you need saving, Jeffrey. I think you need someone to stop letting you run your mouth like you've got the whole damn world figured out."
His eyes narrow. "You don't know anything about us."
"I know your mom's been through hell trying to hold everything together, and I know you think being a smart-ass is the same thing as being strong." I step closer. "It's not."
"Whatever. She's not into you, man. She's not. So quit trying to force it."
"And you're the authority on her feelings now?" I snap, then reel it in. My voice drops, sharper now. "Let me guess. This is about your dad?"
His expression darkens instantly.
Bingo.
"He's coming back," he voice is flat but firm. "And when he does, you're not gonna be around. So leave us alone."
Fuck. There it is.
The delusion. The hope.
The little boy under all that anger still waiting for the guy who walked away to come walking back in like nothing happened.
And suddenly, all my irritation drains out of me.
Because I know that pain. I lived it.
He's just a kid who wants his dad.
But Jesus… that stings.
I swallow down the sharp burn in my throat. "You think I don't get it?" I answer quietly. "You think you're the only one who knows what it's like to be left behind?"
His posture stiffens.
"I've been where you are," I tell him. "Believing in someone who doesn't deserve it. Waiting on a ghost."
He looks away, jaw clenched.
"I'm not trying to take his place," I add. "But I'm also not going anywhere just because you want me to."
That gets his attention. His eyes snap back to mine, full of resentment.
"Then I guess you better get used to disappointment," he mutters.
I smirk. There he is.
"Yeah? Well, you wouldn't be the first angry little punk to throw a tantrum and try to scare me off. Trust me, kid—I've seen worse."
"Whatever," he bites, adjusting his bag.
I shake my head as he storms out of the locker room, the door slamming behind him.
Jesus Christ.
That kid's a hurricane wrapped in sarcasm and trauma.
But under all that?
He's hurting.
And I'll be damned if I let him go through it alone.
Even if he hates me for it.
