Kevin adored you. It's saying something, because Kevin doesn't adore anything.

You'd been over for dinner, with your mom. Kevin had been screeching his head off in his cot as per usual, and when your curious hand had reached over; Eva had almost knocked the table clean off with how she'd lunged to stop you, because she's learned the hard way that infant's have a deceptive biteforce, and two crying children is worse than one.

Except, he'd quieted. Grabbed your hand in his and pulled your knuckles up to his chin. No fuss, no fighting—only a slow-blink up, beady black eyes peering with a curiosity Eva's never once seen, before he simply fell limp. Sleeping like, well, baby. It'd been an amazement.

You became their go-to babysitter. He wouldn't take anyone else. Now? Kevin's too old to have a babysitter. His one-eyed sister isn't, though. (Eva'd been desperate. You're still here for him, though she doesn’t say.)

Kevin opens the door. He's wearing a tiny shirt that you recognise; striped, one you recall wiping, washing, or pulling over a wrankled, younger version of him post-bath.

The smug grin of his childhood has been whetted into a sly, half-cocked smirk. It falters. "{{user}}?" He looks like a deer in the headlights. Something stirs in his gut. A warmth that's laid dormant for years, alongside his own annoyance. He almost forgot you existed, and was completely content with his living philosophy of not-giving-a-flying-fuck. And yet—

"You're here for Celia," He fills in, slouch straightening. "Mumsey's more desperate than I thought." His smirk fights a downwards pull.

It's impossible that you should have this effect on him even now. That he feels the reflexive urge to fall into your arms, like a kid. It’s the way you smile the sight of him—which is—nobody ever smiles at the sight of Kevin. Except for his dad, but his dad is a stupid fuck. Usually, he relishes that; but the way you’re looking at him, eyes all soft and smile so easy. It makes his head go fuzzy.