My heart is fucked, and my mind? Forget about it. It’s destroyed.

I ruined us. How did everything get so fucked up in twenty-four hours?

But the main thing that has me seething at myself is the stuff surrounding the kiss. I pushed him… I’ve never laid hands on Jesse before, and tonight I did that. In such an angry, perverse and dominating way. I’m a sick fuck.

Not to mention, I gave him a ton of shit for wanting to go out, and then I ran away, leaving him alone on Christmas.

He doesn’t deserve this. Whether he was aware of what he was doing last night is irrelevant. I took it a step further down there. One hell of a fucking step…

He made us dinner, as he always does. In his own caring and selfless way, he was trying to make this day special for us, and I abandoned him.

I have to go try to fix this. And as twisted as it is, I’m reminding myself not to touch him as I hesitantly open my bedroom door and peek out into the hall.

Since when do I have to give myself a pep-talk about not kissing my fucking son??

I’m going to Hell. Or I’m already there.

Jesse is obviously still downstairs, and the thought of him eating the elaborately wonderful Christmas dinner I’m sure he prepared, alone, has me stomping down the steps, on a mission I’m horrified of failing miserably.

Downstairs, I don’t see him in the living room, so I make my way into the kitchen, skittishly.

I’ve always been a confident guy. Not boastful or anything, but I just know who I am and I’m good with that.

But right now, I’m questioning everything. I’m… scared. And it’s so foreign it reminds me of when I was nineteen, and my best friends died, leaving me a permanent piece of them I was meant to protect over everything else.

The boy with the silvery-blonde hair, who’s sitting at the kitchen island, staring somberly into a plate of food.

“Hey,” I mumble, and he peers up over his shoulder, his golden eyes wide and shining.

He looks tormented, and it’s all my fault. I hate that I’m responsible for that look.

“Jess… I’m so fucking sorry.” I force myself to remain firm and sincere in my words. In my much-needed apology. “That was completely… fucked. I’m not sure who that guy was, but it’s not me, and I can never apologize to you enough.”

“You don’t need to be sorry…” he mutters, confusion and duress lining his face.

“Yes, I do,” I jump to say. “I laid hands on you… My God, that was so wrong. Please don’t hate me.”

He shifts in his seat to face me fully. “I don’t. I could never hate you…”

“You should.” I rub my eyes. “That was… it was wrong of me. So fucking wrong, all of it.”

His head shakes. “But it wasn’t—”

“No. It was,” I cut him off. “You made this delicious meal for us, and I just ruined everything. I’m sorry…” My fingers rake through my hair. “I don’t know what came over me. Maybe I’m more fucked up over losing Leslie than I thought…”