Page 27 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

“Hey, buddy.”

My chest twists.

This is the man I met last night. Not the guarded one from the garage. Not the careful one in the truck.

“This is Evan,” Sandra says gently, watching me more than him. “Evan, this is June.”

His father sets him carefully on his feet, one hand lingering at the back of his shirt for a second before letting go.

Evan pulls back just enough to look at me properly. His eyes are bright and curious, serious in the way kids are when they’re deciding something important.

“Are you staying?” he asks.

“I am,” I say softly, crouching a little so I’m not towering over him. “If that’s okay with you.”

He studies me, taking inventory. My sweater. My hair. My face. My hands.

I hold still. Let him decide.

After a long moment, he nods once. “Okay.”

That’s it—no follow-up questions. No conditions. Acceptance granted.

The tension seeps out of me, and I smile before I reach into my bag.

“I brought you something,” I say.

His eyes widen instantly. “For me?”

“For you.”

I place the small wooden toy in his hands, the edges smooth from sanding, the shape solid and simple. I don’t say I made it. Don’t explain it. I just let him have it.

He turns it over slowly, fingers exploring the shape, immediately understanding how it works. He twists it once, then again, delighted when it moves the way it’s supposed to.

“Oh,” Sandra murmurs, her hand flying to her mouth. “That’s lovely.”

Evan drops to the floor again, already incorporating the toy into his block structure, narrating under his breath. “This is the bridge. And this goes here, so the dinosaurs can’t knock it down.”

Wayne watches him, something flickering across his face. Pride, gratitude, maybe more.

“Thank you,” he tells me quietly.

“You’re welcome.”

Sandra touches my arm lightly. “You have a good way with him.”

“Thank you.”

Evan builds for a while before deciding I’m part of the structure now.

“You sit here, June,” he says, patting the carpet beside him. I obey, and he hands me a block without ceremony. Blue. “You do this part.”

“Which part?” I ask.

“The back part,” he says, pointing.

I fit the block into place carefully, letting him direct me. He hums as he works, narrating a whole world that apparently contains bridges, dinosaurs, and something called a “no-fall rule” that seems very important.