Page 68 of Who Let The Wolves Out?

I nod, voice soft. “You’re patient. You listen. You care more than you let on. That’s what kids need. Not just rules or structure—they need to feel safe. And youdothat.”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then he says, “I think I’m happy.”

It’s not loud.

It’s not dramatic.

Just honest.

Like the way his hand finds mine on the floor between us.

“I think I’m really,actuallyhappy,” he says again, a little wonder in his voice.

My throat goes tight.

I lean my head on his shoulder, paint and all.

“Me too,” I whisper.

And somehow, in the chaos of dried glue, pastel walls, and our two stupid mugs sitting side-by-side on the window.

I realize we’ve made something real.

Later, we sit on the floor in the middle of the mess—paint cans, canvas bins, mismatched throw pillows stolen from the staff lounge—and eat sandwiches out of wax paper wrappers.

Jason’s got paint on his forearm. There’s glitter in his hair. He looks like the aftermath of a birthday party thrown by feral children.

And I love him so much it makes my chest ache.

He takes a bite of his sandwich, chews, then glances sideways at me like he’s about to admit he burned down the kitchen.

“So,” he says slowly, “Julie asked if I’d be open to taking the guidance counselor position next season.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious.” He sets the sandwich down on his knee. “Apparently she thinks I’ve got the right instincts for it.”

“Youdo,” I say instantly.

He shrugs. “It just… surprised me. People don’t usually look at me and think ‘trusted emotional support entity.’”

My heart squeezes.

“I do,” I say.

He looks at me. Really looks.

And whatever smartass comment was forming on his tongue just melts.

“Yeah?”

I nod, voice soft. “You’re patient. You listen. You care more than you let on. That’s what kids need. Not just rules or structure—they need to feel safe. And youdothat.”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then he says, “I think I’m happy.”

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