Fragile

Chapter 7 - Internship

I glanced around, then pointed toward a nearby shop window. "Look, that store has football jerseys."

That got his attention—barely. He perked up just a little, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as he pressed his face against the glass. "Do they have England jerseys?"

I smirked. "Why don't we go in and find out?"

He considered it, then sighed dramatically. "Fine."

I chuckled, shaking my head as we walked inside. At least I'd bought myself a few more minutes before the next meltdown.

The second we stepped inside the shop, Riggs perked up just a little, his tired eyes scanning the walls lined with football jerseys. Arsenal jerseys. Chelsea jerseys. England ones. He walked forward, dragging his fingers over the fabric like they were sacred.

"Look, Mom!" He pointed excitedly at a child-sized England jersey hanging on display. "That's Leah's team!"

I swallowed, my stomach twisting at the mention of her name. He hadn't forgotten. Not that I expected him to—Leah had left an impression on him in the short time they'd known each other.

I forced a small smile. "Yeah, bud. It is."

He stared at the jersey for a long moment, then turned to me, brows furrowed. "Do you think she plays in London sometimes?"

I shifted on my feet. "Yeah. A lot."

Riggs nodded, his little hands still trailing over the jerseys. "Can we see a game?"

I hesitated. The idea of possibly running into Leah made my stomach flip. But Riggs was looking up at me with those big, hopeful eyes, and how could I say no to that?

"We'll see," I said gently, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "Maybe we can get tickets sometime."

That seemed to satisfy him for now, and he turned his attention back to the jerseys, tugging on the hem of one of the England jerseys.

"Can I get this?" he asked, blinking up at me.

I sighed, already knowing there was no way I could say no to him tonight. "Yeah, alright."

Riggs grinned, holding the jersey like it was the greatest thing he'd ever owned.

Maybe, for him, it was.

By the time we left the store, the fight to keep Riggs awake was losing steam fast. He trudged beside me, his new jersey clutched in one hand, his other hand gripping mine with a sleepy desperation.

"Mom," he groaned, practically dragging his feet. "I can't anymore."

I bit back a smile, squeezing his little hand. "Just a little longer, bud."

He let out a sound of pure suffering. "How much longer?"

I looked around, trying to think of something—anything—that could keep him moving for just a bit more. Then, I spotted a small café up ahead with warm lights glowing in the window.

"Hot chocolate," I announced. "Come on, let's grab some before we go home."

Riggs perked up just slightly. "With marshmallows?"

I smirked. "Obviously."

That was enough to get him moving, and a few minutes later, we were sitting at a small table inside the café, a steaming cup of hot chocolate in front of him. His hands wrapped around it like he was absorbing warmth through the mug, his eyelids drooping dangerously low.

I stirred my own drink, watching him from across the table. His little body was exhausted, but there was something peaceful about him like this—quiet, content, his world simple.