WEEK 79: Superhero

Prompted by: Sam and The Genre Minx

The crazy author says: It’s official. These two are my new favoritest (totally a word 🤣) couple…

At Twitch’s unexpected gesture, Noah freezes in his battle stance.

I scoop the fearless warrior into my arms. Although I’m proud, I’m reeling. My heart is racing. “It’s okay, champ. He’s a friend.”

Noah studies my face. His tiny brows scrunch together. He’s not entirely convinced.

Probably since I’m not entirely convinced. Shifting him to my hip, I point at our fallen comrade. “And he’s been shot, see?”

Twitch is staring at me as if I’ve lost my marbles. Or dropped them in a gigantic acid bath. On purpose.

I guess good moms shield their children from these situations. I guess good moms wouldn’t be forthcoming about bullets and blood. I guess good moms would spin a wildly creative tale about ketchup or strawberry jam.

I guess I’m not a good mom.

My son, however, is extraordinary. He doesn’t even hesitate to ask, “Are we helping him?”

“Of course, we are.”

Noah’s already sliding down my leg and bouncing out the door.

Twitch hasn’t moved.

I offer my hand. “Come on, big guy. Get up before you make a mess of the floor.”

He ignores the olive branch and climbs to his feet unassisted.

I’m relieved.

The cheap linoleum doesn’t resemble a butcher’s block. The towel clutched to his side isn’t soaked through. Twitch doesn’t appear pale or short of breath. I suspect his discomfort is the result of a busted rib. He’ll be fine. Everything will be alright.

Except he’s still staring at me. He still thinks I’m crazy. And inept. And unfit.

I narrow my eyes. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Do you?”

I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

“What am I thinking, huh?”

That I’m a terrible parent. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I think he looks good on you, Sid. I think he looks really good.” Seizing my chin, Twitch gives it a firm jerk. “I think you look like a goddamn superhero.”

Well, shit. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

Because it’s a total mindfuck. “Just don’t.”

The pad of his thumb rubs over my mouth. “Okay, I won’t.”

“And don’t even think about kissing me.”

“Too late,” he replies with a shrug. “Want me to stop?”

No. “Yes.”

“Then I suggest you let me shower.”