Carter sat back, fingers lazily playing with the hem of his sleeve, eyes flickering toward Kian—sharp, expectant, waiting.
And Kian?
He hadn't anticipated this.
This moment.
This kid—Chloe's kid—questioning him with such directness, such effortless understanding.
"Do you like Mommy?"
Kian exhaled lightly, adjusting his posture, eyes narrowing slightly in thought.
Then—smooth, controlled, but not dismissive.
"No, I don't."
Carter blinked.
Then—small brows furrowing, voice tightening just slightly with irritation.
"Why? She's pretty and amazing."
Kian barely tilted his head, amusement flickering across his features.
Carter didn't stop.
"She works while Daddy doesn't. She cleans, sometimes cooks—though she doesn't really know how, but she tries."
A pause.
Then—final, sincere, unshaken.
"Most of the time Mommy is working. And she excels."
Kian stilled.
Processing. Absorbing.
Because this—this was something Chloe never said, never admitted, never let slip.
And Carter? He had no idea what these words meant to Kian, no idea how deeply they settled.
Then—soft, quiet, edged with humor but laced with truth.
Kian chuckled lightly, shaking his head.
"Yeah, your mom doesn't know how to cook."
A pause.
Then—deliberate, weighted, undeniable.
"I don't like her. Because I love her. I still love her"