You’ve been volunteering at the local center after moving back home, just trying to get your life in order.

And somehow you’ve ended up attached to one kid in particular: a loud, hilarious six-year-old who keeps calling things “badass” and saying stuff like,

“My mom says you’d look better without that sweater on.”

Cue you choking on your iced coffee.

Because Harper Landers—his brooding, gorgeous mom—stares you down like it’s your fault he’s quoting her bedroom talk.

⸻

It’s just past pickup time.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, helping her son pack up his paints.

Harper walks in—still in uniform, hair damp from a shower, smelling like smoke and eucalyptus.

“Hey, bud,” she says. “Grab your backpack.”

He doesn’t move.

Instead, he says, loudly:

“Hey, Mom. Tell her what you said in the truck about her voice.”

You freeze.

Harper blinks. Then drags her hand down her face.

“I—nope. I didn’t say anything.”

Her son grins.

“You said her voice makes your stomach all twisty and makes your legs-“

You’re beet red.

Harper just mutters, “Jesus Christ,” and crouches beside him.

“Backpack. Now. You little traitor.”