Damien’s POV
The sound of my phone buzzing on the nightstand jolted awake at exactly 5:47 AM. For a heart-stopping mont, panic flooded my system as I reached for it, expecting so ergency from the northern territories where Sera was conducting her heritage search. Instead, I found a text from Ophelia.
*Ergency at the hospital. My mom had a stroke. Can you handle Adrian today? I’m so sorry - I know this is last minute but I can’t reach anyone else and I have to get to Portland imdiately.*
I scrubbed my hands over my face, trying to shake off the lingering drowsiness. Of course I could handle Adrian for a day. How hard could it be?
*Of course. Take care of your mom. Adrian will be fine.*
Her response ca imdiately: *Thank you SO much. I’ll leave the spare key under the flower pot by the door. He knows the routine.*
Twenty minutes later, I stood outside Sera’s modest apartnt building, still slightly disoriented by the early hour and the suburban quiet. The key was exactly where she’d said it would be, hidden beneath a ceramic pot containing.
I let myself in as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake Adrian before necessary.
"Mr. Damien?" A small voice drifted from the direction of bedroom. "Is that you?"
"Yeah, buddy, it’s ," I called softly, following the sound of his voice down a short hallway. "Aunt Ophelia had to go help her mom, so I’m going to hang out with you today."
Adrian’s bedroom door was cracked open. He was sitting up in bed, his dark curls sticking up at impossible angles and his blue eyes still heavy with sleep. He wore Spider-Man pajamas that were slightly too big for his small fra, the sleeves covering his hands completely.
"Is her mom going to be okay?"
"I think so," I said honestly, settling on the edge of his bed carefully. The mattress dipped under my weight, and he scooted closer without seeming to realize he was doing it. "But Aunt Ophelia wants to be there with her, just like how your mommy would want to be there if you got hurt."
Adrian nodded solemnly, apparently satisfied with this explanation. "Are we going to have adventures today?"
"What kind of adventures do you usually have?" I asked, genuinely curious about how a four-year-old structured his days.
"Well," Adrian said, settling back against his pillows and adopting the tone of soone preparing to deliver a comprehensive lecture, "first we have breakfast. Aunt Ophelia makes really good pancakes, but she says they’re not as good as Mommy’s. Then we brush teeth and get dressed and maybe watch cartoons if there’s ti before school."
Right. School. I glanced at the clock on his nightstand and realized we had exactly forty-seven minutes to accomplish all of those tasks and get him to his preschool on ti.
"Pancakes it is," I said, standing up with more confidence than I felt. "But we need to get moving if we’re going to make it to school on ti."
Adrian bounced out of bed with the kind of instant energy that only children seed capable of summoning. "I can help! I’m really good at stirring."
The kitchen proved to be my first major challenge. Ophelia had thoughtfully left out a box of pancake mix and a note with basic instructions, but she’d apparently overestimated my dostic capabilities. The note cheerfully suggested "just add water and stir!"
Adrian proved to be an excellent sous chef, chattering continuously as we worked through the pancake process. He told about his friend at school who could allegedly burp the alphabet, about the new teacher who wore "sparkly" earrings, and about a book Sera had been reading to him about dragons who lived in libraries.
I attempted to flip our first pancake with disastrous results. "Mommy says that’s how you get really smart—by reading lots of books."
"Your mommy is very wise," I agreed, scraping pancake fragnts off the pan with growing dismay. How had sothing so simple gone so wrong so quickly?
"Here, let show you," Adrian said, reaching for the spatula with the fearless confidence of soone who had never doubted his own abilities. "You have to wait for the bubbles on top, and then you flip it really fast. Like this!"
With surprising skill for soone whose hands were barely large enough to grip the handle properly, he demonstrated the proper pancake-flipping technique. The pancake landed perfectly in the pan, golden brown and intact.
"Where did you learn to do that?" I asked, genuinely impressed.
"Mommy taught ," he said proudly. "She says everyone should know how to cook at least a little bit, even boys."
We managed to produce a stack of reasonably edible pancakes, which Adrian declared "almost as good as Mommy’s but better than the cafeteria ones." Victory, apparently, ca in small and sticky packages.
His preschool was a bright, cheerful building that buzzed with the controlled chaos of dozens of small children arriving for their day. I watched other parents navigating the drop-off routine with practiced ease, and tried to project the sa casual competence despite feeling completely out of my elent.
"Mr. Damien," Adrian said as I walked him to his classroom, his small hand warm in mine. "Will you pick up today too?"
"If that’s what you want," I said, surprised by how much I hoped his answer would be yes.
"Good," he said with satisfaction. "I want to show you the picture I’m going to draw of you today. I’m going to make you really tall and give you superhero muscles."
"Have a wonderful day, sweetie," I said, crouching down to Adrian’s level. Without hesitation, he threw his small arms around my neck in a hug that was brief but fierce.
"You too, Mr. Damien," he said solemnly. "Don’t forget to eat lunch. Mommy says you sotis forget to eat when you’re working."
When I arrived at the school that afternoon, Adrian ca running toward with the kind of uninhibited joy that made several other parents smile. He crashed into my legs with enough force to make stagger slightly, his backpack bouncing against his back.
"Mr. Damien! Look what I made!" He thrust a piece of construction paper at , practically vibrating with excitent.
The drawing was clearly ant to be —a very tall stick figure with what appeared to be a business suit and an expression that could generously be described as "serious." Beside the stick figure was a much smaller figure labeled "ADRIAN" in careful block letters, and both figures were surrounded by what looked like hearts and stars.
"This is incredible," I said honestly, studying the artwork with the attention I usually reserved for multimillion-dollar contracts. "I’m definitely putting this on my office wall."
By the ti we returned to the apartnt, Adrian’s energy had finally begun to flag slightly. We settled on the couch with a stack of his favorite books. His warm weight against my side was surprisingly comforting.
"Mr. Damien?" he said quietly as I finished reading about a lost penguin finding his way ho.
"Yeah, buddy?"
"Do you think Mommy misses us?”
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