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But I’m not shopping for some hypothetical little.

I’m shopping for Kammie.

Not merely the diminutive Kamden went soft beneath when I said it earlier, or the pet name I stole from a dead man because I knew it meant safety to his son.

“Princess Kammie.” John’s voice comes back with startling clarity. “Look at my princess.”

John’s entire personality changed whenever his kid came up, all six-foot-something of hardheaded Navy SEAL dissolving into the proudest father alive.

“Princess Kammie. Kid loves all that soft girly shit. Dresses up whenever he gets the chance. Pink, sparkles, nails, all of it. Sherry fucking hates it, but I told him he can be whatever the hell he wants at my place.”

“Sherry fucking hates it.”

I lower the phone.

Kamden is sleeping with his face tucked against me, wearing a cotton shirt I chose because it wouldn’t irritate his skin, one hand still holding onto me as though that simple contact is enough to convince his unconscious mind I haven’t gone anywhere.

John loved him exactly like this.

Soft.

Pretty.

Sweet.

There was never anything wrong with it. Every fucked-up adult who came afterward simply convinced Kamden there was.

“Well,” I murmur, looking down at his sleeping face. “We’re fixing that too.”

His fingers twitch against my shirt as I reopen the browser.

Tiara.

That seems obvious.

The first results are cheap plastic things made for children’s birthday parties, and that makes me smile because the one in John’s photograph was definitely exactly that—silver plastic, fake gems set crooked along the front, some pink fuzz glued on, the sort of thing that probably cost six dollars and became priceless because Kamden loved it.

I add one to the cart, go to add more, but stop. Starting small, I remind myself. He can have all the tiaras and crowns and shit he wants when we’re home. For now, just this one will do.

Next comes jewelry—not real jewelry, though I’ll buy him that too if he wants. I find a basic set of play jewelry with a plastic pearl necklace, clip-on earrings shaped like little hearts, and a bracelet with absurd oversized gems in pink, purple, blue, and clear.

After some more searching, I find water-based peel-off nail polish, designed for kids. It comes in a set of six—pink, lavender, baby blue, mint, peach, and a glittery top coat.

A manicure kit marketed for tween girls catches my attention next—soft file, buffer, and little toe separators shaped like flowers. That somehow leads me down a crafting route, with a multipack of craft glitter, glue pens, gem stickers, pipe cleaners, pom-poms, and pastel cardstock going in my cart as well.

Then I find sheets of dress-up stickers with gowns, crowns, shoes, bows, purses, and tiny illustrated mannequins, which are too perfect not to get for him.

I should stop there, but I don’t.

My finger hovers over the search bar. I hesitate because it feels like trespass, this next leap, but the urge is too strong. I type “lace panties,” and before I can even justify the decision, the phone screen is awash in delicate, feminine things.

Lace, mesh, bows. Little ruffles at the hips.

I stare at the pictures and imagine Kamden in them. I can picture it so clearly. Kamden standing in my bathroom door, nervous, face burning, hands fluttering at his sides because he can’t figure out what to do with them. White lace, cut high, little scalloped bow at the waistband.

He’d try to cover the front of it, embarrassed, belly tensed. He’d probably twist his toes into the rug, head ducked. And I’d tell him to stop hiding, come here, let me look at you, and he would—shy, obedient, desperate for approval.

I’d tell him he looked perfect. Because he would.