I swallow hard. Her words settle deep in my chest like a weight I didn’t expect but needed to feel.
Her gaze doesn’t waver.
“I’m not saying this to make you feel responsible for him. I’m saying it because I’ve never seen my son try the way he tries with you. That fear he felt when he first saw you? That was love. The kind he doesn’t have a name for yet. But you gave it a shape.”
“And I’m not saying this to win you over,” she adds, firmer now, “also not trying to sugarcoat who he is. You don’t need to rush to meet him where he is, Lucas. You don’t owe him that. But… just know what he feels for you is real. And he’s trying in all the ways he knows how. I’m glad he found you. And he’s lucky to have someone like you in his life.”
The words settle over me like sunlight and weight all at once.
My heart swells, tightens, and aches.
I feel the tears burning at the edges of my eyes, but I blink them back. I can’t cry—not here, not now, not when it feels like something so delicate is being handed to me, like a truth that I don’t know how to hold without crumbling.
Because how do I tell her that I’m the lucky one?
TWENTY-EIGHT
ALEXANDER
My laptop sits open on the table, but I haven’t typed a single word in the past fifteen minutes. The cursor blinks against the screen like it’s mocking me for pretending I’m focused. I’m not. I keep glancing at my phone, checking it like some desperate addict.
I know he is with my mother. She wanted the afternoon with him all to herself. Said she wants to get to know him without me hovering like some overbearing watchdog. I agreed. Or, more accurately, I didn’t say no.
I trust her. I do.
Still, waiting is its own kind of ache.
The last time I looked at the clock, it was barely past three. Now, the numbers glare back at me—5:15. Shit. I have a work Zoom call scheduled at 5:30. I close my laptop with a sigh, stand, and stretch out the stiffness from sitting for too long.
Just as I turn toward the stairs, I hear the soft ding of the elevator, and my head snaps toward the sound.
The doors slide open, and Lucas steps in.
He pauses just beyond the foyer, hands clutching the strap of his shoulder cross bag, eyes scanning the space before they land on me. He gives me a faint, unsure smile—the kind thatdoesn’t quite reach his eyes, but still manages to twist something inside my chest.
I close the distance between us slowly, and when I’m close enough, I gently tilt his chin up with two fingers; his brown eyes lift to mine, open and tired. There’s something vulnerable in them, like he’s been carrying too much quiet for too long. I search his face, my thumb brushing lightly against the curve of his jaw.
“You tired?” I ask.
He nods.
“Hungry?”
He shakes his head, looking down at his stomach as he pats it lightly.
“Your mom overfed me.”
A small laugh escapes me. “Of course she did.”
He looks up again, his eyes still soft. I can see it in the way he blinks slower than usual, the way he sways a little in place like he might fold if I don’t hold him. So I say gently,
“You need a shower. Then sleep.”
He blinks at me, caught off guard by how plainly I say it.
I glance toward the clock.
“We won’t have ASL lessons tonight,” I tell him. “I have a meeting that’s been scheduled today.”
