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The toast pops up, and I jump slightly. Christ, I’m getting soft. But as I butter the perfectly browned bread and slide another egg onto the waiting plate, I can’t bring myself to care. The kid needs breakfast, and Eve, well, she needs to see I can be more than the monster who killed Giovanni Costa.

Leo zips past me, nearly colliding with the island in his excitement. The sound of his small feet pattering across my kitchen floor makes me smile.

“Can I help? Can I help with breakfast?” He bounces on his toes, reminding me of an overexcited puppy. “I’m really good at cooking. Mom used to let me stir things.”

“Sure, kid.” I grab a spatula from the drawer. “Want to be my official egg flipper?”

His eyes light up like I’ve just offered him the keys to a candy store. “Really? You’ll let me flip them?”

“With supervision,” I clarify, pulling up a sturdy stool so he can reach the stove safely. “Here, let me show you the technique.”

Leo climbs up, his tongue poking out in concentration as I demonstrate the proper wrist movement. His first attempt sends egg flying, and he dissolves into giggles that are impossible not to join.

“Sorry! Sorry!” he gasps between laughs. “It went zoom.”

“That it did.” I wipe a bit of hot egg from my cheek, finding myself chuckling. “Want to try again?”

“Yes please.” The earnestness in his voice tugs at something in my chest I thought had died years ago.

We work together, Leo chattering away about his favorite breakfast foods and how Eve burns toast “like, every single time.” His laughter fills my kitchen, bright and genuine,transforming the space from its usual stark efficiency into something warmer.

“Mr. Zeke?” He looks up at me with those innocent blue eyes. “You’re way better at cooking than Aunt Evie. Can you make breakfast every day?”

The simple request hits me harder than any punch I’ve taken. “We’ll see, buddy. We’ll see.”

Watching Leo’s small hands grip the spatula, something tightens in my chest. His face scrunches in concentration, reminding me so much of Eve when she’s focused on a case. The morning sun catches his sandy blond hair, creating a halo effect that makes him look almost angelic.

Christ, when did I become such a sentimental old man?

Fifty-two years. More than half a century of life, and I’ve never experienced the simple joy of teaching a child how to cook breakfast. Never heard the delighted giggle of my own son or daughter as egg yolk splatters across the counter. It leaves a hollow ache in my chest.

“Look, Mr. Zeke! I did it!” Leo’s triumphant voice pulls me from my thoughts as he successfully flips an egg without breaking the yolk. His pride is infectious, and I find myself grinning despite the melancholy threatening to overtake me.

“Good job, kid.” I ruffle his hair, noting how natural the gesture feels. Too natural. Dangerous territory for a man my age to start thinking about what-ifs and could-have-beens.

Eve can’t have children. The thought sneaks in uninvited, sharp and painful.

She’d told me when we first dated, the same night I also found out she was a cop. An ovulation disorder makes it impossible for her to carry a baby even if by some miracle she conceived. It’s why that bastard Ryan had turned abusive—as if her worth as a woman was tied to her ability to reproduce.

I felt like shit vanishing on her after she told me. Her inability to have kids had nothing to do with it. Her profession is responsible for the distance between us.

Leo reaches for another egg, and I steady his hand, showing him again how to crack it without getting shells in the pan. His small fingers are warm under mine, trusting.

“Next time let’s make pancakes,” he says, eyes bright with hope for future mornings like this.

Next time.As if this moment isn’t already more than I deserve. More than a man like me should ever hope for at my age.

“Mr. Zeke?” His voice is hesitant as I set his plate of egg and toast on the counter. He rushes over to the stool and climbs up.

I lean against the counter, coffee mug warming my hands. “What’s on your mind, kid?”

He takes a deep breath, the kind children take when they’re gathering courage for something important. “Are Aunt Evie and I going to stay here with you forever now?”

The question catches me off guard. His blue eyes are full of hope, innocence, and a hint of fear that squeezes my chest. This kid, who less than forty-eight hours ago was terrified of me, now sits in my kitchen asking if I’ll be a permanent fixture in his life.

“Yeah, buddy.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. I clear my throat debating how much to tell him. He’s going to find out soon enough so we might as well tell him today.

“Actually, kid,” I set my mug down. “There’s something else I should tell you about your aunt and me when she comes down for breakfast.”