Chapter 1

"Ayven, you'll be late for school!" Shayla shouted from the kitchen, her hands moving swiftly as she packed her son's lunch box with practiced efficiency. Sandwiches cut into triangles because he insisted they tasted better that way, apple slices with a sprinkle of cinnamon, and the granola bars he'd been obsessed with for the past month.

"A minute, Momma!" Ayven's voice echoed from down the narrow hallway of their two-bedroom apartment.

Shayla chuckled, shaking her head as she zipped the lunch box closed. A minute in Ayven's world could mean anything from thirty seconds to ten minutes, depending on what had captured his attention. Her son was seven years old, with a mind that never stopped racing and a maturity that sometimes unnerved her. He was tall for his age, all long limbs and boundless energy, with the kind of pouty lips that made strangers stop and comment on how adorable he was.

What they didn't know—what they couldn't know—was that those lips were a carbon copy of his father's.

Shayla pushed the thought away as quickly as it came, the way she always did. Seven years of practice had made her an expert at compartmentalizing, at building walls so high that the past couldn't climb over them. Most days, anyway.

The sound of Ayven's door opening pulled her from her thoughts. He emerged looking sharp in his school uniform, his dark hair still slightly damp from his morning shower, his backpack slung over one shoulder with the kind of casual confidence that made her heart squeeze.

"You've missed the bus," Shayla said, glaring playfully at him as he padded into the kitchen. "You know the car is acting up. How am I supposed to drop you off and still get to work on time?"

Ayven's face fell for half a second before he recovered, flashing her that charming smile that was pure trouble. "I'm sorry, Momma. I left my maths book on the shelf and had to go get it. Mr. Peterson said we'd have a pop quiz today."

Of course he did. Her brilliant boy who never forgot an assignment, never missed a deadline, never let anything slip through the cracks. Sometimes Shayla wondered if he'd inherited her anxiety along with his father's looks, if he felt the same crushing need to be perfect, to never make mistakes.

"It's okay, baby," she said softly, her expression melting into something warm. "Come give Momma a kiss."

Ayven's eyes narrowed playfully, and that troublemaker grin widened. "If you give me extra pancakes and grapes, sure."

Shayla gasped in mock outrage. "You little negotiator! I already made you a delicious breakfast with lots of honey syrup."

"Yeeeah!" Ayven giggled, bouncing on his toes before darting forward. Instead of kissing her cheek like she expected, he planted a loud, smacking kiss on her forehead, right at her hairline.

Shayla laughed, full and heartily, the sound filling their small kitchen with warmth. These moments—these beautiful, ordinary moments—made everything worth it. The struggling, the scraping by, the two-bedroom apartment that wasn't much but was theirs. She'd spent every spare dollar on Ayven's education, on his books and his uniforms and making sure he had everything he needed to thrive. Her own comfort could wait.

"Who's hoooome?" Ruby's voice rang out like a siren as the front door burst open, no knock, no warning. Just Ruby being Ruby.

"Rubbeeeess!" Ayven abandoned his mother in an instant, sprinting across the living room to bump fists with his favorite person who wasn't his mom.

"It's Aunt Ruby, Ayven," Shayla called out, following her son with an exasperated smile.

Ruby, all five-foot-three inches of controlled chaos, was grinning at Ayven like he'd hung the moon. Her box braids were pulled into a high ponytail.

"Momma, she doesn't mind me calling her anything I like. Right, Rubes?" Ayven looked up at Ruby with those big, pleading eyes that got him whatever he wanted ninety percent of the time.

"Sure thing, big boy," Ruby said, ruffling his hair. "Leave your momma with her discipline speeches. You ready for school? I'm dropping you off."

"Hell yeah!" Ayven pumped his fist in the air.

"Language, Ayven!" Shayla's voice was sharp, though there was no real heat behind it.

Ruby waved her off with a dismissive hand. "Leave him alone, mama bear. He's seven, not seventy."

"You're spoiling him," Shayla accused, though her lips twitched with amusement.

"Am I?" Ruby batted her eyelashes innocently, already ushering Ayven toward the door. "Come on, trouble. Let's get you to school before your mom has an aneurysm about your language."

Within minutes, they were gone, the apartment falling into sudden silence. Shayla stood in the middle of her living room, listening to the echo of Ruby's car pulling away, and allowed herself one moment—just one—to feel the weight of it all.

Then she grabbed her purse, checked her reflection in the hallway mirror, and steeled herself for the day ahead.

Ruby, meanwhile, navigated morning traffic with practiced ease, dropping Ayven off at school with a fist bump and a reminder to "be brilliant, but not so brilliant you make the other kids feel bad."

She had her own career to get to, her own life running parallel to Shayla's. But every morning started the same way—showing up for Shayla and Ayven like they were her own family.

Because they were.

And Shayla would spend her day the way she always did: working her eight-to-noon shift at the coffee shop on Fifth Street, then rushing across town for her twelve-thirty to six shift at the supermarket. Two jobs. Barely scraping by. But it was enough to keep Ayven in a good school, enough to keep them fed and safe.

That was all that mattered.

★★★★★

The coffee shop smelled like burnt espresso and broken dreams by hour three of Shayla's shift. She'd perfected the art of smiling through exhaustion, her customer service face locked in place as she handed over a vanilla latte to a woman who'd sent it back twice already.

"Have a wonderful day," Shayla chirped, her voice somehow still bright despite wanting to collapse.

The woman didn't respond, just walked away scrolling through her phone.

Shayla's smile dropped the second she turned around. She pulled her own phone from her apron pocket, the screen lighting up with nothing. No new emails. No missed calls. No interview requests from any of the three companies she'd applied to last week—administrative coordinator at a marketing firm, executive assistant at a law office, and office manager at a tech startup.

Nothing.

She'd checked seventeen times since her shift started. Still nothing.

"Girl, you're gonna wear out that screen," Jack called from behind the espresso machine, his dark eyes amused. He was the only coworker who didn't make small talk feel like pulling teeth.

"Just checking something," Shayla muttered, shoving the phone back into her pocket.

"Job applications?"

She glanced at him sharply. "How'd you know?"

"Because you've got that look. The one that says 'I'm too smart to be making four-dollar lattes for entitled assholes.'" Jack grinned, steaming milk with expert precision. "Which, for the record, you are."

Shayla allowed herself a small smile. "It's not about being too smart. It's about—"

"Paying bills. I know." Jack slid a fresh cappuccino across the counter to a waiting customer. "You'll get something. You always do."

She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to believe him. But it had been three months of applications, three months of hopeful mornings checking her email, three months of nothing.

The second shift at the supermarket was worse. At least the coffee shop had Jack and the occasional nice customer. The supermarket had fluorescent lights that made her look half-dead and a manager named Gerald who thought standing over employees' shoulders counted as leadership.

"Shayla, those cans need to be faced forward," Gerald said, appearing behind her like a polyester-clad ghost.

"They are forward, Gerald."

"Not aligned properly."

She turned around slowly, meeting his gaze with the kind of calm that came from having absolutely zero patience left. "They're soup cans, not soldiers."

Gerald's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "Just... just make sure they're straight."

"Sure thing." She turned back to the shelf, waiting until his footsteps faded before pulling out her phone again.

Still nothing.

By the time six o'clock rolled around, Shayla's feet ached, her back screamed, and she'd checked her email forty-three times. She clocked out, waved goodbye to exactly no one, and stepped into the evening air with relief flooding her chest.

At least Ruby had already picked up Ayven. That text had come through around three—a picture of her son grinning in the passenger seat of Ruby's Mercedes, his backpack on his lap, captioned: “Got the prince. Don't worry about dinner”.

Shayla didn't know what she'd done in a past life to deserve Ruby, but whatever it was, she was grateful.

She stopped at the grocery store on the way home, the small one two blocks from their apartment. The list was already pulled up on her phone—milk, chicken breast, broccoli, strawberries, the specific brand of pasta Ayven liked, honey for his morning pancakes, and those ridiculously overpriced organic juice boxes he'd decided were the only ones worth drinking.

High maintenance didn't even begin to cover it. But Shayla wouldn't have it any other way.

She moved through the aisles with efficiency, calculating costs in her head as she went, making sure she stayed within budget. Forty-three dollars and eighteen cents later, she was out the door, bags in hand, heading home.

---

★★★★★

The apartment smelled like heaven.

Shayla pushed through the door and was immediately hit with the scent of garlic, tomato sauce, and something savory that made her stomach growl audibly.

"Momma's home!" Ayven's voice rang out from the kitchen.

She dropped her bags by the door and followed the smell, finding her son standing on a step stool beside Ruby, both of them hovering over the stove. Ayven was wielding a wooden spoon like a sword, and Ruby was laughing at something he'd just said.

"What's all this?" Shayla asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Ruby glanced over her shoulder, grinning. "Dinner. Obviously."

"Spaghetti and meatballs!" Ayven announced proudly. "And sauced turkey because I wanted it."

"Of course you did." Shayla crossed the kitchen and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "Did you do your homework?"

"Before Ruby even got here. I'm not an amateur, Momma."

Ruby snorted. "He really said that. Verbatim."

Shayla shook her head, biting back a smile. "You're seven, Ayven. Where do you even learn these words?"

"Books. And Ruby."

"Of course." Shayla shot Ruby a look. "You're a terrible influence."

"I'm the best influence," Ruby corrected, stirring the sauce with a flourish. "Now go sit down. Dinner's almost ready."

"I should help—"

"Sit. Down." Ruby pointed the spoon at her like a weapon. "You've been on your feet all day. Let us handle this."

Shayla wanted to argue, but exhaustion won. She sank into one of the kitchen chairs, watching as Ruby and Ayven worked together with the kind of easy rhythm that came from doing this often. It wasn't the first time Ruby had swooped in and saved the day, and it wouldn't be the last.

Twenty minutes later, they were all seated around the small dining table, plates piled high with spaghetti, perfectly seasoned meatballs, and slices of turkey that Ayven had insisted be "extra saucy."

"This is amazing," Shayla said after her first bite, closing her eyes as flavor exploded across her tongue. "Seriously. When did you learn to cook like this?"

"YouTube," Ruby said, twirling pasta around her fork. "And trial and error. Lots of errors."

"She burnt the garlic bread," Ayven stage-whispered.

"Traitor!" Ruby gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. "I thought we agreed not to mention that."

Ayven giggled, his whole face lighting up. "You said it was 'artisan charcoal flavor.'"

Shayla burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the small apartment, and for the first time all day, the weight on her chest eased.

"So," Ruby said, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. "Any news on the job front?"

Shayla's fork paused halfway to her mouth. "Not yet."

"Define 'not yet.'"

"I mean nothing. No calls, no emails, no interviews."

Ruby frowned. "That's bullshit. You're overqualified for half those positions."

"Language," Shayla said automatically, glancing at Ayven.

"She's right though," Ayven chimed in, completely unbothered by the cursing. "You're really smart, Momma. They're dumb if they don't hire you."

Shayla's throat tightened. She reached over and squeezed his hand. "Thanks, baby."

"It'll happen," Ruby said firmly. "You just have to be patient."

"I've been patient for three months."

"Then be patient for three more." Ruby's voice softened. "Something will come through. It always does."

Shayla wanted to believe her. But belief required hope, and hope had a way of making disappointment hurt worse.

They finished dinner together, the conversation flowing easily...Ayven talking about his day at school, Ruby complaining about a photoshoot that ran four hours over schedule, Shayla pretending her feet didn't feel like they were going to fall off.

By the time the dishes were cleared and Ayven was tucked into bed, Ruby had claimed the couch, her overnight bag already stationed by the door.

"You don't have to stay," Shayla said, even though she desperately wanted her to.

"I know." Ruby stretched out, remote in hand. "But I'm going to anyway."

Shayla smiled, sinking into the armchair across from her. "What would I do without you?"

"Crash and burn, probably." Ruby shot her a wink. "Good thing you'll never have to find out."

And for tonight, in this tiny apartment with her son asleep down the hall and her best friend sprawled on the couch, Shayla let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—things would be okay.