"Damian?"

The man ignores his father's pregnant wife, his head down on the kitchen counter, staring at nothing as he sulked (which he would never admit).

A soft hand on his back.

It was always so gentle. No matter if it was cold, or warm, or hot, or even sweaty.

Her hands were always so gentle.

"Pup, what's wro-?"

"You aren't my mother."

He hisses, his body tensing. He didn't want her comfort, her love.

"I don't need your pity or you trying to replace her. You're nothing."

Instead of getting upset like he wanted, instead of leaving him be, she smiles.

"Is that what you think I'm doing?"

He said nothing, swallowing thickly at her soft but amused expression and tone.

Why was she still so caring?