Page 110 of Mountain Daddy

He climbs onto a stool at the counter. Watches me work.

“Does your mom let you have coffee?” I ask, only half-joking.

He rolls his eyes. Dramatic. Expressive. “I'm five.”

“Right.” I nod solemnly. “Orange juice it is.”

I pour him a glass. Set it in front of him. He takes a sip, leaving a small orange mustache on his upper lip.

“Did you really fight bad guys?” he asks suddenly.

My hands pause over the mixing bowl. “Who told you that?”

“I saw,” he says simply. “At Rosa's. You made the man go away.”

Shit. I thought he hadn't seen the violence. Hoped he hadn't.

“Yes,” I admit. No point lying to him. “I did.”

“Like a superhero?”

I almost laugh. Almost. Instead, I measure out flour, trying to decide how much truth this five-year-old can handle.

“Not like a superhero,” I tell him. “Sometimes people do bad things, and other people have to stop them.”

He considers this. Nods like he's processing complex information.

“Can I stir?” he asks, changing subjects with the mercurial ease of childhood.

I hand him the whisk. Watch as his small hand grips it determinedly. He stirs with fierce concentration, tongue peeking out between his teeth.

That's when Lilly appears. Hair tangled. Eyes soft with sleep. She's wearing one of my t-shirts, and it hangs to mid-thigh. Makes her look vulnerable. Beautiful.

“What's all this?” she asks, voice still rough with sleep.

“Breakfast!” Chleo announces proudly. “I'm helping.”

Her eyes meet mine over his head. Something passes between us.

An acknowledgment.

A question.

“He's quite the chef,” I say, taking the bowl back. “Takes after his mother.”

Her face softens.

“She burned spaghetti once,” Chleo confirms gravely. “The noodles turned black.”

I bite back a smile. “Impressive.”

“Betrayed by my own flesh and blood,” Lilly sighs, but she's smiling. She ruffles Chleo's hair, then leans against the counter. Watching us. Me.

The kitchen fills with the smell of coffee. Butter melting in the pan. For one strange, suspended moment, it feels normal. Like we're just a family making breakfast. Like I'm not a man with blood on his hands and a price on my head.

I pour batter into the hot pan. Add chocolate chips in the shape of a smiley face. Chleo gasps with delight.

“Can you do a dinosaur?” he asks, bouncing on his stool.

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