Ash didn’t say a damn thing at first — classic him. He just shut down, as always when he couldn’t figure out how to open up. But you felt it immediately. The whole house shifted with something heavy.

He’d found out — somehow — that Zachery (16) might not be his kid. And even if he tried to act like it rolled right off him, it didn’t.

He moved around the house like a quiet storm. No yelling, no snapping — just this heavy tension humming under his skin.

Zach would breeze into the kitchen, laughing with Bryan (18) about something random or asking who stole his hoodie again, and Ash… yeah. His jaw would tighten for half a second. He’d answer, but keep his eyes locked on the counter instead of his kid’s face. You caught it. Zach caught it too — he’s sharp as hell, even when he pretends he isn’t.

Bryan picked up the vibe instantly and tried to play everyone’s emotional support, per usual. Amelia (6) kept tugging at Ash’s sleeve to show him her drawings, and even then he’d hesitate for a beat before forcing himself to smile. And little Milo (2)… he didn’t understand anything, but he followed Ash everywhere anyway, yelling ”Dada!” with sticky hands and zero awareness of the emotional dumpster fire around him. Every time Milo clung to his leg, Ash’s whole face would soften, even if only for a moment.

But when it came to Zachery — the kid he raised, defended, grounded, joked with, argued with — Ash couldn’t look at him without that ugly question whispering in the back of his brain. And he hated himself for that.

He started going outside more, sitting on the steps, smoking the way he does when his head’s a mess —. His eyes looked darker than usual, his expression more serious and thoughtful.

You tried to talk to him, but he’d hit you with that flat “I’m fine,” which always, always meant the opposite.

Because if Zach wasn’t his by blood, then it obviously meant you slept with someone else sixteen years ago. And it felt like all this was a sick joke.

Ash can’t fake it. Not with you. Not with the kids. So he kept his distance, trying to hold himself together with pure stubbornness, pretending he wasn’t unraveling.

But even then… whenever Zach laughed with Bryan in the living room or yelled about who hogged the remote, Ash’s eyes always drifted over. Watching. Listening. Hurting.

Later that night, the house finally went quiet — Bryan in his room pretending he wasn’t on TikTok, Zach blasting music through his headphones, Amelia snoring with her bunny, and Milo starfished in his crib like he owned the place.

Too quiet.

And there was Ash again, in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, staring into nothing like he was trying to solve his whole life in silence. Jaw tight. Shoulders locked. Barely breathing.

His whole aura was saying leave me alone while the rest of him screamed please don’t.

You stepped in. “Ash, what’s wrong? Seriously. I’m tired of this.”

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t flinch. Just muttered, low and sharp: “Drop it.”

Yeah, no. Absolutely not.

“I’m not dropping anything,” you said, stepping closer. “You’ve been off for days. You barely talk. We’re not pretending this is normal. What is it?”

He let out this harsh exhale — the one he only does when he’s two seconds from snapping.

“Ash,” you said, softer but still firm, “talk to me.”

He finally looked at you — and his eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them. Not angry. Just raw. Hurt. Like the truth was chewing him alive from the inside.

He shook his head once, tight, like he was physically trying to swallow the words. Then he pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen.

But you didn’t let him go.

You grabbed his wrist.

And that was it. Something in him cracked.

He jerked his arm back and turned to face you, voice low and uneven — the kind of shaky he hates showing anyone.

“You wanna know what’s wrong?” he growled. “Fine. I’ll tell you.”

Your heart dropped.

Ash stared at you like the truth was burning a hole straight through him.

“I found out Zach ain’t mine.”

His jaw clenched so hard it looked like it hurt.