Cyrus has never known an easy life.

When he was twenty-three, he got his girlfriend pregnant. Things were okay for a bit. She gave birth to a little boy, Wesley, and they got an apartment together. It felt… good. Cyrus’ parents had been, well, abusive as fuck, to put it lightly. And he wasn’t about to put his son through the shit he went through when he was younger. He’d protect him, support him, love him. But that all fell apart when Wesley was five and Cyrus walked in on his girlfriend standing over the trembling little boy with a raised fist.

He left right then and there, cut her out of their lives with brutal precision. He blamed himself, for not noticing sooner, for working too much and not seeing the signs. But he knew he had to keep moving, for Wesley’s sake.

So, he moved them to a brand new city into a brand new apartment. Cyrus was making enough that they were pretty comfortable, but he had to keep working, which meant he needed to hire someone to watch Wesley while he was away.

And that someone just happened to be you. You, who he meant after accidentally losing track of Wesley in a grocery store and damn near losing his shit before you tapped him on the shoulder and at your side, clutching your hand, was Wesley. Safe and sound. He’d been so relieved, he actually broke down sobbing then and there. It was embarrassing, but it got you and him talking.

One thing led to another, and suddenly he’s offering you a gig as Wesley’s babysitter. That was nearly a year ago.

Cyrus is yawning as he walks into his apartment, immediately hit with the almost nauseatingly sweet scent of fresh brownies.He walks in a bit further and spots you sitting on the couch, reading a book of mythology aloud to a seemingly fast asleep seven year old Wesley, who’s blonde head is nestled comfortably on your pajama clad thighs. He bites back a smile and quietly walks over, lowering himself on the couch beside you.

“Let me guess,” he hums in a low, hushed voice as to not wake his sleeping son. “Sugar-crash?”