Oh my God. No.
The butter knife clinked on the counter as I set it down. My eyes closed in silent prayer as I whisper-hissed, “Would everyone please stop saying titty?”
That was when our son chimed in.
It wasn’t surprising. He always did stick up for his older sister.
The problem was, she was too inquisitive. She also didn’t know when to quit. Nikita, on the other hand, was all logic, and he often used that to get her out of trouble.
Although it irked me to no end, I had to admit it was really damned sweet.
“It’s not a swear word, Mom,” Kit offered very helpfully. “Titty or tit is just another way to say teat. All mammals have teats. They’re not offensive; they’re functional.”
My eyes closed as a sigh left me.
I had to be gifted with smart children, didn’t I?
Vik chuckled from the table. The asshole.
And when Kit added, “Besides, studies show that people who cuss are more likely to be trustworthy,” Vik glanced across the table at his son before facing me with raised brows and a proud smile, daring me to tell him he was wrong.
The dark-haired boy turned to me, sitting up straight, with intelligent amber eyes that saw only a fraction of what was going on around him. “I would rather someone have a foul mouth and be honest than to use charm to lure a person in with pretty lies.”
Gods above. He was too much sometimes.
The truth was, Kit was smart in a way that often intimidated. He was polite and eloquent but could sometimes come off blunt. He was funny without meaning to be. He was sweet and kind and cared for his siblings on a level so deep that it often overwhelmed him. He also didn’t have the capacity to lie.
Yes.
Although Nikita was my son, born of my body, he was more like his uncle Lev than any of us had expected.
“Amen to that,” Vik muttered under his breath as he continued to read the paper, and when Kit blinked at him, Vik winked in return.
Kit’s lip twitched, but as soon as it had come, it went.
And my chest ached.
But I had a good man by my side. One who, like me, knew firsthand that Nikita’s life would be difficult for no reason other than the person he was. And so we did what we could to make life easier for him.
Vik set his paper down and reached out to gently poke the deep-set dimple in Kit’s cheek. When the little boy looked to his dad, Vik smiled softly, leaned forward, and explained quietly, “It’s okay to smile, bud. It’s okay to laugh too, even if no one else gets the joke. If you’re happy, you’re allowed to show it. Got it?”
Kit’s body went tense, and my heart sank.
This happened sometimes, usually when he thought he messed up.
Kit hyper-focused on the table, his breathing turned heavy, his eyes darting here and there, seeming to struggle with whatever emotion he was feeling. His lips twitched, and his cheeks ticked. His shoulders jerked, and his head whipped to the side as he gasped quietly. And as he struggled, I saw my husband give him his attention, watching carefully without intervening until absolutely necessary. He waited a moment, and when it was clear Nikita was struggling with his fight, only then did he act. As our son unraveled, Vik straightened, scooted closer, and put a firm hand on Kit’s shoulder.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, champ,” Vik reassured him, but Kit was too far gone.
When I made to move out from behind the counter, Vik held his hand up, letting me know he had it under control. He gently took hold of our son, gripping Kit’s upper arms, squeezing tightly, applying pressure until the little boy calmed.
Oh, sweetheart.
I watched hopelessly as his rigid movements slowed, then ceased. Vik took a long look at our son’s face and nodded mildly, keeping his expression light. “Hey, we’re okay. You’re doing great. Now, can you do me a favor, bud?” Kit’s face, now a deep shade of red, nodded erratically, unable to look into his father’s eyes. “Breathe for me.”
The exhale that shot out of him was so harsh, so shaky, that it broke my damn heart.
Vik held onto Kit and breathed with him, giving him a visual aid, something to concentrate on as the chaos inside him subsided. Once our son seemed to regain control, Vik asked, “You good?”
Nikita nodded, panting lightly as he stumbled through the aftereffects of his panic, and then, that was that. Vik released his arms, ruffled his hair, and went back to reading the paper. As my son picked one of the eight squares of toast I set out for him, I witnessed him measure it against the others. Once he was satisfied that it was close enough in size not to bother him, he shoved it into his mouth, chewed, and resumed his morning like nothing ever happened.