I don’t answer. Instead, I just start stacking blocks again, building a ridiculous jump ramp neither of us will probably land.
For the first time since he arrived, the penthouse doesn’t feel quite so empty.
And I’m not sure whether that’s dangerous… or exactly what I’ve been missing.
Later that evening the penthouse settles into a different kind of quiet.
The lights are dimmed to a warm amber glow, the only real brightness coming from the massive flat screen TV. The gameis on—Monday Night Football, one of the few live feeds Viktor’s people allow piped in through the secure line.
I’m not a die-hard fan, but I follow enough to appreciate a good defensive stand or a perfectly timed blitz. And if it means I can sip some vodka too to keep my mind off the bigger picture, then I’m down.
Landon is curled on the opposite end of the sectional in his pale-blue pajamas, knees drawn up, Claw tucked against his chest like a shield. He’s been quiet since we put the blocks and cars away, but it’s a comfortable quiet.
No tension.
No scheming glances toward the door.
It feels like we have an understanding at last.
Suddenly, the quarterback drops back, scans, fires a laser down the sideline. The receiver hauls it in for thirty yards before getting lit up by the safety.
“Nice read,” Landon mutters, almost to himself. “But he should’ve checked to the flat first. Safety was cheating over the top.”
I glance at him, surprised. “You watch a lot of ball?”
Th boy shrugs one shoulder, eyes still glued to the screen. “Enough. Dad used to have season tickets when I was younger. We’d go to Giants games whenever he could swing it. Mom hated the cold, so she’d stay home with hot chocolate and reruns of old movies. But Dad and I… we’d bundle up, scream ourselves hoarse, eat terrible stadium food. It was one of the few times the world felt normal.”
I nod slowly.
Another small window into his life.
Another piece that makes him more than a name on a file.
The next play: screen pass. The running back catches it clean, cuts up field. It’s a nice move, and I cast my eyes over toward Landon.
“Watch… watch… he’s gonna stiff-arm the linebacker,” Landon trills. “Hey! There it is!”
Sure enough, the runner plants a palm in the defender’s facemask and powers through for extra yards.
I let out a low whistle. “Good eye.”
Landon grins—small, triumphant. “Just because I’m a Little doesn’t mean I don’t love football.”
There’s no defensiveness in it. Just fact. A playful, innocent fact.
I don’t plan the next move. My arm simply lifts, drapes itself along the back of the small couch, and settles around his shoulders.
Landon doesn’t tense.
He doesn’t pull away.
Instead he shifts—small, instinctive—until his side is pressed against mine, head tipping to rest on my chest. His hair smells faintly of the lavender shampoo from the bathroom. Claw is squished between us like a fuzzy buffer.
On screen the offense is marching. First down. Second down. Clock ticking.
I should move my arm.
I don’t.
