Page 66 of Emil

“What’s in it?” I asked.

“Cool Whip with cheese and pineapple. Don’t judge until you’ve tried it. It’s delicious,” Anders said.

“Better be nice,” the scowling one added.

All around us, I noticed people looking at Anders like he’d completely lost his mind.

Barrett, the large, heavily tattooed man, stepped forward and added, “Delicious might be several steps too far.”

“I’m willing to try it, I guess,” I said. Anders rolled his eyes. Under the circumstances, that felt like progress.

“Boys, thank you so much for my salad,” Anders said, lifting the bowl. “I’m gonna put it in the fridge and eat it with dinner.”

He took a deep breath, marched to the kitchen, and slid it onto a shelf.

And then he was mobbed.

Every boy wanted his attention. One after another, lining up to talk to him. All except the one with the bottle, not a sippy cup like the others, who didn’t speak at all. He just held things up for Anders to look at, one item after another, solemn and serious.

From where I stood, it was obvious how much the boys loved him. They were used to Anders being part of the mix. The Daddies, who clearly adored their boys and respected Anders, stepped back and let him take over. They chatted. They laughed. They gave him space.

Anders fetched snacks. Refilled cups. Smoothed over minor frustrations. He did everything short of changing diapers for the ones who’d regressed that far.

He looked damned exhausted.

And no one seemed to notice.

I knew eavesdropping was wrong, but I absolutely did not give a shit.

I excused myself to use the bathroom, and when I came back, the boys were gathered exactly as they had been all afternoon, clustered tight around Anders. He was literally trapped in a circle of them. Every single one was smiling. Loving. Vying for his attention. And Anders was utterly miserable in the dogpile of their affection.

His shoulders were hunched almost up to his ears, tension etched deep into his posture. Lines bracketed his mouth, his lips pressed into a tight, thin line. My boy was hanging on by a thread.

“Anders, I know who the man is,” Jakob said conspiratorially.

“Me too,” Rory added in a stage whisper.

“He your Daddy,” the one in the pink dress said, forgetting to whisper entirely before the others shushed him, reminding him their Daddies might overhear.

I’d heard their Daddies earlier ask them to give Anders some breathing room, but once the noise level settled, they drifted back to their conversations and let the boys sort themselves out. It didn’t feel malicious. Just familiar. Anders was treated like the grown-up of the boys’ group.

“Emil is my friend,” Anders said quickly and likely not as firmly as he’d like. “He’s not my Daddy.”

“No,” the scowling one, whose name I’d learned was Nico, cut in. “He take care of you. He watch you. That makes him your Daddy.”

I let the word settle in my chest.

The realization hit me hard. That was exactly what I wanted to be. What I already was, even without having the language for it yet. These boys saw it clearly. They saw Anders and me. They saw our dynamic. But none of them noticed how close Anders was to the edge.

And somehow, today of all days, those things couldn’t coexist.

“No, no, he’s not,” Anders said weakly.

Seeing such a big man folding in on himself like that broke something in me. If Daddy was what I was to him, what I wanted to be, then it was time to act like it.

“Hey, boys,” I said calmly. “I need to steal Anders for just a second.”

I didn’t wait for permission. I stepped into the circle, held out my hand, and helped Anders to his feet. Once he was standing, he didn’t let go. I kept his hand in mine and guided him toward the front of the house.