Chapter 21
PARKER
“Liam!” I call down the hall. “We leave in twenty minutes!”
“I know!” His voice carries that edge of stress that means he’s spiraling. My organized child who needs everything perfect, who probably is checking his gym shoes for the third time.
I move back to my room, scanning my reflection one more time. Charcoal pencil skirt, silk blouse in dove gray, blazer tailored to perfection. Hair swept up in a twist that took three attempts. Makeup carefully applied to say competent professional instead of a woman who barely slept.
But competent professional Parker forgot to—wait, did I charge the AirTags?
I grab my phone, pulling up the app. Two little dots blink at me from the screen. Connected. Thank God. I’d sewn them into the lining of both backpacks last week, hidden under the label maker labels that mark every single item my children own because five-year-olds lose everything.
“Mom!” Noah appears in my doorway, shirt now on correctly but untucked. “I can’t find my red folder!”
“Kitchen counter. By the—” I stop. Sniff the air.
Pancakes.
The smell of pancakes drifts up from downstairs—butter and vanilla and that particular sweetness that means someone’s cooking breakfast.
Oh, thank God. Sienna must have let herself in. She knew I’d be frazzled, knew the first day would be chaos even though I’ve been a single mom for five years and should theoretically have mornings figured out by now. But mornings are always a circus, and first-day mornings are a circus on fire.
“Go get your folder,” I tell Noah. “And find your brother. Breakfast is ready.”
He thunders down the stairs while I do one final check of his room. Backpack—there. Lunch box—wait, where’s his lunch box? Did I pack lunches last night, as I planned, or did I get distracted by—
No. Focus. Lunches first, existential crisis later.
I head downstairs, already running through the mental list. Turkey and cheese for Liam, no mayo.
Peanut butter and honey for Noah, cut into triangles.
Apple slices with lemon juice so they don’t brown.
Carrots because I’m a good mom who includes vegetables even though Noah will trade them for literally anything else.
Juice boxes. Napkins. Did I remember napkins?
The kitchen comes into view, and I freeze.
It’s not Sienna.
Silas stands at my stove, spatula in hand, flipping pancakes with the easy competence of someone who’s done this before. He’s in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders, hair still damp like he showered recently.
Cal sits at my kitchen island, surrounded by lunch supplies and what appears to be a laminated calendar with color-coded meal plans.
Color-coded. He’s sorting items into two piles—Monday’s lunch for Liam, Monday’s lunch for Noah—cross-referencing against the calendar like he’s planning a military operation.
And Jace.
Jace stands at my counter with a cutting board, assembling sandwiches with the same precision he probably uses to field-strip weapons. Turkey, cheese, bread. Cut diagonally. Into the container. Next sandwich. His movements are methodical, efficient, almost meditative.
They’re in my house. Making breakfast. Packing lunches. Like this is normal. Like they do this every day.
“What—” My voice comes out strangled. “What are you doing?”
Cal looks up, that devastating smile already in place. “Good morning to you, too, angel. We figured you’d forget to ask us to help get the boys ready for their first day, so we took the liberty of inviting ourselves.”
“You can’t just—” I gesture vaguely at everything. “You can’t just walk into my house and—”
“And make sure our children are fed?” Cal’s amber eyes dance with mischief. “Shocking behavior, really. We should be ashamed.”
“I remember when you refused to use an agenda for your homework assignments,” Jace says without looking up from his sandwich construction. “Seventeen-year-old you would be very confused about who this color-coded lunch calendar woman is.”
My face heats. “That’s different. That was—”
“Rebellion disguised as chaos?” Jace’s lips quirk slightly. “Yeah. We remember. You wrote assignments on your hands out of spite after Charles bought you that planner.”
“It was a stupid planner.”
“It was a very nice planner,” Cal corrects. “Leather-bound. Your initials embossed in gold. You threw it in the pool.”
I did. I absolutely did.
My eyes finally land on Silas, who’s been silently flipping pancakes this entire time. He glances over his shoulder, storm-gray eyes meeting mine, and shrugs.
“Pancakes,” he says simply. As if that explains everything. As if breaking into my house to cook breakfast is perfectly reasonable behavior.
“You can’t—” I start again, but the words tangle. Because what am I even angry about? That they’re helping? That they’re helping without being asked? That they just walked into my house like they belong here?
Or am I angry because part of me is relieved? Because I was drowning in the chaos, and they just appeared and took half of it off my plate without being asked?
“How did you even get in?” I demand.
“Charles gave us a key,” Cal says cheerfully. “For emergencies.”
“This isn’t an emergency!”
“First day of school for two five-year-olds feels like an emergency,” Silas mutters, sliding three perfect pancakes onto a plate. “Also, you’re overthinking. Which syrup do the boys want?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. “I—what?”
“Syrup.” He gestures to my pantry, where, sure enough, I have three different kinds because my children have opinions. “Maple, blueberry, or the organic agave stuff you probably bought because you felt guilty about sugar.”
“Maple,” I say automatically. Then catch myself. “Wait, no. I mean—you can’t just—”
“Overthinking won’t kick us out,” Silas says, turning back to the stove. “And the pancakes are getting cold. So, unless you want to explain to our sons why they’re eating cold pancakes on their first day of school, I’d suggest you go get them, and we all move forward.”
The nerve. The utter disregard—but dammit, he’s right. I hate that he’s right.
I’m dressed to the nines—expensive suit, perfect hair, makeup that took thirty minutes—and now all I have to do is round up my children and.
..nothing. The lunches are being packed.
Breakfast is being made. The chaos I was drowning in ten minutes ago has been managed by three men who apparently decided my first-day stress was their problem to solve.
“Liam!” I call up the stairs, voice slightly strangled. “Noah! Breakfast!”
Thunder of small feet. Both boys appear, Noah’s shirt already coming untucked again, Liam with his backpack already on, even though we’re not leaving for another fifteen minutes.
They freeze when they see the kitchen.
“Pancakes!” Noah shouts, launching himself toward the table. “Did you make Mickey Mouse ones?”
Silas pauses, spatula in hand, and glances at the perfectly round pancakes on the griddle. “Mickey Mouse, you say...” He turns to look at me, one eyebrow raised. “Parker. Where’s your cookie-cutter set?”
“My what?”
“Don’t try to tell us you don’t have a cookie-cutter set,” Cal snorts from his position at the island, not even looking up from the lunch assembly line.
I gesture helplessly toward a cabinet near the double ovens. “Bottom shelf. Behind the mixing bowls.”
Silas moves with purpose, crouching to rifle through the cabinet until he emerges with my rarely-used set of circle cutters in graduated sizes. He returns to the griddle, studies the pancakes with the same intensity he probably uses for surveillance, then gets to work.
One large circle. Two smaller circles positioned perfectly for the ears.
“Liam, you want Mickey, too?” Silas asks, not looking up.
“Yes, please,” Liam says, moving to the table with that careful politeness that’s pure him.
Silas plates both pancakes—geometric precision in breakfast form—then moves to my fridge. Opens it like he owns it. Pulls out my whipped cream dispenser that I definitely did not tell him I owned.
He draws perfect whipped cream outlines—circles for faces, dots for eyes, curves for smiles. Mickey Mouse appears on both plates like magic, and my sons’ faces light up like he just performed an actual miracle.
“That’s so cool!” Noah breathes.
“Can you make other shapes?” Liam asks, already analyzing the technique.
“Probably.” Silas sets both plates in front of them with the care of someone handling something precious. “But you’re eating these first before they get cold.”
“Thank you, Mr. Silas!” Both boys chorus already digging in.
I stand there in my kitchen—my sanctuary, my domain, the place I’ve controlled every detail for five years—watching a man I haven’t lived with in six years create Mickey Mouse pancakes for my children with my equipment like he’s done it a thousand times before.
“Coffee?” Silas appears at my elbow, pressing a mug into my hands before I can answer. “You look like you need it.”
It’s made exactly how I like it. Cream, no sugar. How does he—
“You used to make it the same way in high school,” he says quietly, reading my expression. “Some things don’t change.”
“Everything’s changed,” I whisper.
“Not everything.” His hand finds the small of my back, just for a second. Grounding. Warm through the silk of my blouse. “Drink your coffee, firefly. Let us help. You don’t have to do everything alone anymore.”
But I don’t know how to not do everything alone. I’ve been doing it for five years. Being self-sufficient. Being strong. Being—
“Mom?” Liam’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Can you check my backpack? I want to make sure I have everything.”
And just like that, I’m back in motion. Because my children need me, and I can process my complicated feelings about three men invading my kitchen later.
“Of course, baby.” I set down my untouched coffee and move to his side. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Behind me, I hear Cal muttering about napkins and Jace asking something about whether the boys prefer apple juice or fruit punch, and Silas telling Noah that Mickey’s smile is made of whipped cream, not syrup, so maybe don’t drown it, and I think:
This is what I was afraid of.
Not that they’d be bad at this. But that they’d be good. That my sons would respond to them like they’ve been waiting their whole lives for this. That it would feel natural instead of forced.
That it would feel like family.
And I have no idea what to do with that.