Page 187 of Twisted Needs

“My kids,” I repeat quietly. The idea feels chaotic. But not wrong. “You really think so?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. “I think you and Anders have more than enough love to go around.”

And maybe—just maybe—I do too.

ANDERS’ EPILOGUE

ANDERS’ 30TH BIRTHDAY

“Did you choose which charity we’re donating to?” Parker asks me.

Morning light spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows in pale ribbons of gold, washing the bedroom in that soft, hazy glow that only exists before the city fully wakes up. Somewhere below us, Manhattan hums quietly beneath the penthouse—distant traffic, a siren fading into nothing, the muffled rhythm of life continuing outside our little bubble.

Beside me, Parker is laid flat on his back like a corpse in an expensive coffin, arms crossed over his chest and legs perfectly straight.

Lately he’s been doing this weird thing where he sleeps like a mummy. Apparently it’s a new meditative practice meant to improve circulation or spinal alignment or whatever health obsession he picked up this month. Personally, I think he’s just terrified of aging. The man isn’t even fifty yet and he’s already panic-buying retinol, collagen powder, and hair-growth serums like the grim reaper personally scheduled him an appointment.

I keep telling him that as long as he still has most of his hair, we don’t have a problem.

“The Trevor Project,” I answer sleepily.

One of his eyes cracks open. “We did The Trevor Project last month.”

“Okay?” I scoff. “It’s my money.”

“Through marriage,” he mutters, finally turning his head toward me. “Have you been putting arsenic in my green juice?”

“No,” I say thoughtfully, winking. “That’s too obvious.”

The bed shifts as he sits up with a groan, rolling one shoulder before cracking his back loud enough to echo through the room. “So old,” I murmur.

“So old,” he sighs dramatically. “In fact, since you’re so young, you can go make your kids breakfast.”

I snort. “My kids? Really, Pet’ka?”

He grins lazily, sunlight catching the silver threading through his temples. “You were the one who wanted one.”

“I said I wanted a dog,” I correct. “You were the one who disappeared for a weekend and came home emotionally attached to three entire human beings.”

“They keep me young.”

“You used to say that about me.”

“You stopped being cute the moment you turned thirty.”

I stare at him flatly. “Happy birthday to me, I guess.”

“You stopped being hot the moment you started balding,” I shoot back.

Parker looks genuinely offended. “Baby, I’m not balding.”

“You’re not looking hard enough.”

“You are a piece of work,” he says, shaking his head, though he’s smiling when he leans over me. His hand slides along my jaw, thumb brushing beneath my chin with that same impossible gentleness that still undoes me. After all these years, Parker touching me like I’m precious still makes something warm unravel in my chest.

“I love you, Anderson,” he whispers against my forehead. “Stay in bed, birthday boy. I’ll bring you breakfast.”

I roll my eyes immediately. “Please don’t set off the smoke alarm again.”