Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 22407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
I sort of needed a real fucking answer.
Worfgivemestrength.
Teens are so fucking hard.
I miss when he was little and new ocean-themed bath toys or juice boxes made me the best mom of all time.
My arrival occurs just as the door opens to unfurl the stairs they need to descend. The instant I see Wy’s freckled covered face, I warmly greet, “Fins!”
Rather than speak in return, he merely flashes me the shaka – aka the hang loose sign – alongside a halfhearted smile on his way to the SUV.
Fuck. Me.
This can’t be good.
There’s a small delay before Wes arrives in the doorway, yet when he finally does, there’s no stopping my teeth from sinking into my bottom lip.
StrangeNewWorldshavemercy, how this man only continues to get better with age is a Star Trek mystery they should look into.
His mismatched eyes are still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
His strong, solid, stoic frame is even more cut than the day we officially met due to vigorous exercise with and without his son.
And his smile?
His slightly off kilter, slightly bashful, slightly sweet and sexy and savage, smile?
It’s never lost the art of making my panties wet.
You know.
When I wear them.
Still not a major fan.
Probably never will be.
Wes adjusts the collar to his long, black coat, shifts his wordsearch booklet to his other hand, and defeatedly sighs during his stroll towards me.
Yeah.
This is really not good.
I push a wide mouth grin onto my expression and wind both arms around his torso the instant he’s within reach. “Mr. Wilcox.”
An unmistakable, happy groan precedes his mouth from crashing into mine. Our tongues waste no time welcoming one another home nor does his free hand hesitate to wrap itself around the nape of my neck.
Squeeze.
Anchor me to him.
To the fact that I’m really here.
To the fact that in spite of being so many miles apart nothing horrible happened.
Fear and panic are still Wes’s default settings much like stubbornness and control; however, I do my best to be understanding.
Afterall, we have been through an unfortunate amount of hellish things in our relationship.
They just aren’t the only things we’ve been through.
And that’s what I have to keep reminding him about.
Even a decade later.
Our mouths reluctantly separate at which point he huskily murmurs, “Mrs. Wilcox.”
There isn’t time to exchange anymore pleasantries courtesy of squeaking in the background, “Finsssss!”
“Twins!!!!”
Glancing over my shoulders is done at the same moment Wy’s younger sibling’s fling themselves at his legs, curling tightly around him, their tiny faces piercing with pure relief.
That they inherited from their dad.
They’ve seen him make that exact same expression – one he still makes whenever we’re apart for too long – and naturally began mirroring it long before they could talk.
The difference?
They only hug their big brother like that.
Could be because in so many ways he’s their whole world.
He has been since they were born.
He talked to them through the NICU glass.
He sang to them “Baby Shark” the first time he held them.
He taught them the – wrong – words to “Sweet Child O’ Mine” while buckling them in for preschool.
He helped make them snacks, grab the “right” Band-Aids, and always encouraged them to do whatever made them happy even if it meant doing something different from one another because having your own space, your own life, your own stuff was important and getting to share it with those you loved made it even more fun.
Pretty sure that last lesson came from Clark.
He’s never stopped dropping wisdom for the Wilcox dudes.
They still need it.
Him and all his Data meets Alfred like vibes.
Recalling his slightly less excited acknowledgement of my presence prompts me to turn towards my husband. “What’s with my mini?”
“He hates me.”
The lack of hesitation to his answer is met with nods of comprehension. “Of course, he does.”
“What?!” Outrage fuses with confusion in his glare. “What do you mean ‘of course, he does’?!”
Our bodies disconnect in tandem with me retorting, “He’s a fourteen-”
“Thirteen.”
“Almost fourteen-year-old dude.”
“Don’t say dude.”
“Of course he hates you. He has to hate one of us.”
“Why?!”
“Hormones.”
Low, unhappy grumbles linger behind sealed lips. “Be serious, Bryn.”
“Oh, I’m a thousand percent being serious, Wes.”
“He has no valid reason to hate us.”
“Technically, an uncontrollable brain chemistry nightmare going on is a valid reason.” A snarky smirk slides onto my expression as I fold my arms across my chest. “At least according to Temps.”
Another displeased grunt is presented.
“Anddddd of the two of us, he’s more likely to hate you rather than me because I speak his language.”
“That surfer shit he uses isn’t an actual language.”
“Much like Klingonese, that’s debatable.” Hill appearing at the top of the stairs pushes us to begin moving in the direction of our family. “Did you manage to complete your mission before he made the hatred known?”
Wes’s reluctance to answer isn’t a great sign. “I did.”
“And?”
“And he wants to spend to Christmas in Doctenn with Kendall.”