“It... felt real,” he said again, softer now, exhausted. “I thought I lost you too.”
I glanced up.
Ruslan had risen from the bed.
He stood a few steps away now, hands at his sides, fingers flexing once before stilling. His expression was something I had never seen on his face before—raw confusion threaded with disbelief, pain tightening the lines around his eyes, and beneath it all... something dangerously close to vulnerability.
“I asked him repeatedly what was wrong,” Ruslan said quietly, his voice rougher than before. “He wouldn’t speak to me.”
The words weren’t accusatory.
They were... wounded.
I looked at him for a long moment, then back at Yannis, who was slowly calming in my arms, breathing evening out, weight settling heavier against me as the terror loosened its grip.
“He wasn’t ready to talk,” I said softly. “Sometimes fear needs to feel safe before it can find words.”
Ruslan’s jaw tightened.
“He is safe with me.”
“I know,” I said—not challenging him, not contradicting. Just stating a truth that could exist alongside his own. “But right now... he needed something familiar.”
Ruslan didn’t argue.
Didn’t correct me.
He simply watched as Yannis curled closer, small fingers relaxing at last, his body gradually surrendering to exhaustion.
The silence returned—but it was different now.
Charged. Heavy with something unnamed.
I carried Yannis to the bed and lowered myself onto the edge, letting him settle against me.
His small body molded into mine—head pressed to my chest, legs draped across my lap. One arm went around his shoulders, holding him steady, while the other moved in slow, soothing strokes through his dark hair.
I let my fingers trace the familiar contours of his scalp, memorizing the curve of his skull, the softness behind his ears, the way he smelled faintly of soap and lavender.
Ruslan remained near the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed over his chest.
His eyes never left us. Not for a second.
He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t clear his throat or shift his weight to announce himself.
He stood there in absolute stillness, a silent presence at the edge of the room, watching as though he were committing the moment to memory.
There was something unnerving in that focus. Sharp. Assessing. Not jealousy exactly, not softness either—something colder, more deliberate. As if he were measuring what this bond meant. What it cost. What power it held.
He turned and walked away his footsteps soundless against the floor, granting us privacy without ever asking for it.
Yannis’s breathing gradually steadied, but sleep did not claim him. He remained wide-eyed, small fists gripping the fabric of my shirt, clinging to me as though I were the last tether keeping him afloat in a world that had thrown him into darkness.
After a long, fragile moment, he lifted his head. His gray eyes met mine, vulnerable and searching.
“Is my mom truly with the angels?” he asked, voice small, trembling, hopeful, heartbreaking all at once.
I swallowed hard. Every part of me wanted to protect him from the truth, but he needed it—clear, soft, unflinching.
