33. Jordyn
JORDYN
The cafeteria din is a familiar beast. Trays slap down on metal runners, a hundred conversations rise and fall in a wave of high-pitched chatter, and the air hangs thick with the scent of overcooked tater tots and industrial floor cleaner.
I stand behind the steam table, my hand moving in a rhythm I don’t have to think about.
Scoop, slide, repeat. I serve a helping of lumpy mashed potatoes to a girl with bright pink barrettes in her hair.
My mouth moves, forming a question about gravy, but the words are just air.
My mind is a looping reel of fractured moments.
The quiet, pre-dawn light filtering through my kitchen window, catching the steam rising from a coffee mug.
Tate’s thumb drawing slow, steady circles over my hand.
He didn’t push, didn’t demand. He just stayed, a solid, grounding presence in the wreckage of my composure.
His steadiness felt like sinking into solid earth after a long fall.
Then the image shatters, replaced by heat and friction.
Wes. The scrape of his stubble on my neck, the frantic, bruising pressure of his mouth.
My body remembers the hard slam of his hips, the desk shaking with the force of it.
Not grounding. Consuming. He didn’t offer a safe harbor; he was the storm itself, demanding I meet its chaos with my own.
A tray clatters to the tile floor, a sharp, metallic crash that makes me jump.
Milk splashes against the leg of my jeans.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.
This wasn’t part of the plan. I came here for simplicity, for a straight line I could walk for Brody.
Instead, I’ve stumbled into a tangled knot.
Two men. Two brothers. A gentle hand and a possessive grip.
There's no clean cut, no way to separate the warmth from the fire. They’ve both crossed a line I never even knew I had, and I am standing right in the center of it.
My knuckles whiten around the damp cloth.
I scrub at the spilled milk on the tile, the motion sharp and repetitive.
Scrub. Wipe. Wring. The smell of sour milk and disinfectant stings my nose.
This is messy. This is a five-car pile-up on a foggy night.
Brothers. The thought alone feels like a betrayal, a violation of some unspoken code I didn’t even know existed until I broke it.
I’ve built my entire life around avoiding this exact brand of chaos.
A life of clean lines, predictable schedules, and zero emotional entanglements.
It’s a fortress built brick by brick, not for my protection, but for Brody’s.
I squeeze the rag until water drips between my fingers, my breath catching in my throat.
What happens when he senses the cracks in the foundation?
He misses nothing. He reads the barometric pressure of my moods better than any meteorologist. Instability is the one monster I can’t protect him from if I invite it into our home.
It’s the ghost of his father walking out, the echo of “this is too much.” I can’t let that happen again. I won’t.
Fear should be flooding my system, a cold, logical command to pull back, to bolt the doors and pretend none of it happened.
I should be mapping out an exit strategy, reinforcing the walls.
But as I rise, the wet rag limp in my hand, the panic doesn’t come.
I lean back against the stainless-steel counter, the metal cold against my back, and I let the memories wash over me again, this time without flinching.
Tate’s thumb stroking my skin wasn’t just a touch; it was an anchor.
For once, somebody else held the weight, and I just…
floated. I didn’t have to be the strong one, the planner, the protector.
I just was. And Wes… his ferocity wasn’t a threat.
It was a mirror. He looked at the jagged, angry parts of me, the ones I keep hidden, and didn’t even blink. He met my fire with his own.
The truth settles in my bones, heavy and undeniable.
I don’t regret it. Not a second. Not the quiet peace with one, nor the raw consumption with the other.
An ache spreads through my chest, a hollow thrum for something I never let myself want.
It isn't regret. It's something far more dangerous. It's hunger.
Across the cafeteria's chaos, Brody sits at the end of a long table, his small frame dwarfed by the industrial seating.
His headphones rest around his neck like a safety net he doesn't need right now.
The noise that would have sent him spiraling a month ago—the clatter of trays, the shrill laughter of third-graders, the scrape of chairs on linoleum—washes over him without making him flinch.
He's arranging his lunch with surgical precision.
Carrot sticks in a perfect line, parallel to the edge of his tray.
Apple slices fanned out in a neat semicircle.
Sandwich cut into triangles, positioned at exact ninety-degree angles.
But this isn't the frantic, desperate ordering of a meltdown.
This is just... him. Comfortable in his own rhythm.
A boy from his class drops into the seat across from him, lunch tray clattering. "Why do you always do that weird food thing?"
Brody doesn't look up from his careful arrangement. "It makes sense this way. Everything has its place."
"That's dumb."
"No, it's not." His voice is matter-of-fact, not defensive. "Fire trucks have compartments for everything too. Hoses go in one place, axes in another. If they mixed it all up, they couldn't save people."
The other boy pauses, considering this. "Fire trucks are cool."
"They're efficient." Brody adjusts an apple slice by a millimeter. "Tate showed me how they organize everything. He said good systems save lives."
The conversation flows without the stilted awkwardness that usually marks Brody's interactions. He's not performing normalcy or masking his differences. He's just existing, secure enough in his own space to let someone else into it briefly.
I watch from behind the steam table, my hands stilling on the serving spoon. When did this happen? When did my son—my anxious, overwhelmed, perpetually overstimulated son—become this steady presence in his own life?
The change isn't dramatic. He's still lining up his food, still processing the world through his unique filter.
But the desperate edge is gone. The constant vigilance, the hair-trigger readiness to flee or shut down—it's been replaced by something I barely recognize.
Confidence. Not the forced bravado of someone pretending to fit in, but the quiet assurance of someone who knows he belongs exactly as he is.
A laugh bubbles up from the table as the other boy attempts his own food arrangement, making a hash of it. Brody doesn't correct him, just continues with his own precise work. The interaction is easy, natural. Real.
The station. The men. The routine visits that have become as essential as breathing. Whatever tangled mess I've created with Tate and Wes, it's done something I couldn't manage alone. It's given Brody a foundation solid enough to stand on, even in elementary school chaos.
The weight of that realization settles in my chest like a stone. This isn't just about me anymore.
My grip tightens on the counter's edge until my knuckles burn white.
The metal digs into my palms, a sharp anchor against the tide of realization washing over me.
This isn't about what I want anymore. Hell, it stopped being about me the moment I watched Brody arrange his lunch without flinching at the chaos around him.
The cafeteria noise fades to a dull hum as the pieces click into place with brutal clarity.
Tate's steady presence, teaching Brody to navigate overwhelming spaces.
Wes's gruff protection, showing him that strength doesn't require hiding who you are.
The way both of them instinctively create safe spaces without being asked.
They've become part of Brody's foundation, woven so seamlessly into his world that removing them would be like pulling load-bearing walls from a house.
I exhale slowly, the breath shuddering out of me like steam from a pressure valve. The truth sits heavy in my chest: whatever this tangled mess between us becomes, it can't just be about stolen moments and breathless encounters. It involves all of us now. Brody included.
The thought should terrify me. Every instinct I've honed over eight years screams that this is dangerous territory—too many variables, too much potential for catastrophic failure.
But as I watch my son engage naturally with his classmate, his shoulders relaxed instead of hunched in perpetual defense, I can't deny the evidence right before me.
"You good over there?" Maria, the head cook, appears beside me with a concerned frown. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Just thinking." I straighten, forcing my hands to release their death grip on the counter.
"Dangerous habit." She bumps my shoulder with hers. "Especially when it comes to men."
The casual comment hits closer to home than she realizes. I manage a weak smile. "What makes you think it's about men?"
"Honey, I've been married thirty-two years. I know that particular brand of shell-shocked when I see it." She hands me a fresh dishrag. "The question is whether you're running toward something or away from it."
I take the cloth, my fingers still trembling slightly. "What if it's both?"
"Then you better figure out which direction serves your boy best." Her voice gentles. "Because that's the only compass that matters for a mother."
She's right, and the simplicity of it cuts through all my circular thinking.
This isn't about desire or fear or the jagged complexity of wanting two men who happen to be brothers.
It's about what protects Brody. What helps him thrive.
What gives him the best chance at the life I've been fighting to build for him since the day his father walked out.
The answer settles in my bones with uncomfortable certainty. Whatever this becomes, whatever boundaries get crossed or lines get blurred, I can't let it fracture. Because Brody needs all of us now. Not just me, carrying the weight alone. All of us, messy and complicated and real.
I just have to figure out how to make that work without destroying everything in the process.