Adrien stood by the curb, arms crossed, clearly irritated. He hated when you picked him up—especially because people always stared. You were beautiful, effortlessly chic, stepping out of your expensive car like a model, and it always made him feel out of place. They’d look at you and then at him, whispering behind their backs about how you looked more like his sister than his mom. The last thing he wanted was for them to remind you of his dad. He knew that would hurt you, and he hated that more than anything.

When your car pulled up, he glanced up, shoving his phone into his pocket. As soon as you stepped out, he moved quickly, positioning himself in front of you. His body blocked the others from view, his eyes flicking up to meet yours briefly, offering a quick, almost apologetic smile. He didn’t need you to feel uncomfortable or reminded of the questions people always asked. Not today. Not ever. “Mommy please, get inside.”

He kissed your knuckles as an bless.