I froze—just for a second—because this... this felt like forgiveness I hadn’t earned.
Then I wrapped my arms around him.
Gently. Carefully. Reverently.
One hand cradled the back of his head. The other supported his tiny spine.
He weighed almost nothing. And somehow, he weighed everything I’d ever lost.
I stood, lifting him easily.
He clung harder—little fists fisting in my shirt like he was drowning and I was the last thing keeping him afloat.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured into his curls. “I’ve got you both. I swear it.”
He cried himself empty.
Eventually, his sobs softened into hiccups. His breaths evened. His fists loosened, one small thumb drifting unconsciously toward his mouth as exhaustion claimed him.
I started toward the hallway, cradling him gently.
His head nuzzled into my shoulder, still wet from crying, heavy with weariness, yet somehow trusting me enough to lean on me completely.
Every step felt sacred, every breath I took careful not to break the fragile peace between us.
His breath warmed the side of my neck.
His tiny heartbeat tapped against my skin like Morse code.
When I reached the door—
It burst open.
Light from the hallway sliced across my face.
And Pen stood there. Filling the doorway like a storm.
Wide awake. Barefoot. Eyes blazing.
Oversized T-shirt hanging off one shoulder.
Hair wild from sleep.
Eyes feral enough to make the devil rethink his life choices.
Breathing hard like she’d sprinted across the house barefoot in fear of losing her child.
Her gaze took in the scene:
Her son asleep on my shoulder. My arms around him. My shirt damp with his tears. Her son’s fingers curled in the fabric near my heart.
Her pupils blew wide.
Her lips parted.
And her voice—when it came—was a blade wrapped in velvet. “What did you do to him?” she snarled and lunged.
Before I could react, she ripped Vanya out of my arms with a speed and strength born only from motherhood and terror.
