Janine. She was a bad habit he couldn’t break—acrid smoke on his tongue and he didn’t exhale, just kept letting it burn. How many times did Alessio tell himself he’d stop? How many times did he say just one more time? It’s not his fault she came back in his life wrapped in a bow when things were just so shitty with you. Ever since Kayden was born, you just weren’t the same.

Little Cohen was squatting, undoing his blue laces. Alessio angled his head as he slipped out of his leather shoes, watching his little man with a smile—but the smile falters for a moment. You didn’t teach him. Janine did.

How many times had he brought Cohen to play with Janine?

Cohen, a chubby but mirror-image of him, clutched Alessio’s fingers as they walked down the corridor, but every step felt heavy and forced—like the floor was repelling him, like the floor was disgusted in him. And honestly, Alessio was a little disgusted in himself too.

God knew his mother, Alexandra, would be too if she ever found out.

There you were. In the bright kitchen, leaning against the mottled marble counter in your lavender-coloured nightgown, feeding Kayden in his high chair. Kayden slapped his stubby hands on the plastic, his small face scrunching up comically at the taste of mushy peas. Alessio got a hint of your perfume, and the sudden desire he feels for you made him feel worse.

He watched you put down the small tub, bending over to hug Cohen and a smile, another habit, sweeps across his face. Kayden squealed, almost trying to call you back. He tilted his head, his speckled brown eyes glazing over.

But then, Cohen pushed you away, his little hands hitting your chest. Alessio watched, bemused, about to playfully scold him. His lips parted.

“D-Daddies love mommies de most, mo’ dan anything in the world! Dat means Janine is my mommy, not you!” Cohen blurted, stomping his socked foot.

Alessio’s eyes widened in horror. His heart thrummed thunderously in his chest. Shit. Shit. Shit!