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A big sniffle but nothing else.

“My sweet boy, I’m sorry I didn’t answer you right away. I’m not mad at you, baby. Not at all.”

His sobs had lessened, and I knew I was getting through to him.

So I kept going. “My sweet Tristan, I should’ve never reacted that way. Your father . . . fuck, he doesn’t even deserve to be called that . . . I’m livid at him, at how he treated you.”

Rustling sounded behind the door, and Tris’s broken, quiet voice echoed in the room. “You . . . you almost lost your business because of me.”

“No.” Fuck, I didn’t want to have this conversation through a door. “Can I come in, my love?” I’d never called him that before, but it sounded right.

He must’ve thought so, too, because the door creaked open in the next second, and I saw a watery, tentative smile on his face from where he sat against the wall, his toe nudging the door wider. “Your love?”

I smiled softly back, dropping to the cold tiled floor next to him. I was getting flashbacks again, the parallels stark to when we were here months ago despite the circumstances—and Tris’s distress—being very different. “Always, my sweet Angel Baby. I love you so much.” I reached for his hand, interlacing our fingers on the floor between us. “You know that, right?”

His head lolled back until it was leaning against the wall, neck twisted toward me. “I do, Daddy. And I love you just as much.”

“Good.” I kissed his forehead briefly before pulling back. “I truly apologize for reacting poorly before. Anger at, uh . . . the man who, um . . . what should I call him?”

“Cameron called him my sperm donor.”

“Apt.” I smirked. “I was so fucking angry at your sperm donor that I forgot to reassure you I wasn’t upset with you. It was thoughtless and selfish, and I’m so sorry.”

Tris turned away and swiped his hand under his nose, sniffling again. “I know you weren’t upset with me. But in that moment, it felt like you were.”

“No, baby. I could never be mad at you for the actions of that despicable man.”

“I know.” He offered another wet smile, though he still didn’t look up. “I’m sorry I ran.”

I stroked my thumb over the back of his hand. “I understand why you did.”

Tristan rolled his head against the wall again to find my gaze. “I’m still sorry he fucked with your life. I inadvertently put you on his radar, and I hate that. You don’t deserve that.”

“Neither do you.”

He blinked at me before nodding then leaned his head on my shoulder. I squared myself against the wall so he had a comfortable pillow—as comfortable as a muscled yet somehow bony shoulder could be.

I rested my head atop his, and we sat there for several long moments as we settled down. These quiet moments with the love of my life were probably my favorite.

Tris’s soft voice broke the silence a few minutes later. “Fuck, you’d think I’d be sick of breakdowns today.”

I raised my head and turned to him. “What do you mean?”

Tristan pulled back to catch my gaze. He was wincing. “After my dad left, I had what I think was my first panic attack.”

I gasped. “Oh, baby, are you okay?”

He nodded. “Yes. Cameron came over and talked me down.”

I nodded back. “I’m glad he was there for you.” I wasn’t lying, but my mind was racing as I bit back the question I wanted to ask more than anything: Why didn’t you call me?

I knew Tristan loved me, that he trusted me, but I needed him to come to me when he was upset or panicking so I could help. That was my role as his Daddy—the role I would only give up temporarily and only during a scene—and I couldn’t help him if he didn’t tell me he was hurting.

Then a solution hit me, and the brilliance of it made my stomach swoop. We’d put this off for far too long, anyway, and it was exactly what Tris needed from me right now so he would know all was right with the world. That he was cared for and loved just as he was. “But we should talk about that.”

The way his eyebrows furrowed was adorable. “About what?”

Butterflies swarmed at the mere thought of what I was about to suggest. “About how you didn’t call me when you were panicking.”