I huffed. “What’s his name?”
She kissed my forehead and stood. “I call him… my angel.”
Tears springfrom Noah’s eyes before I can say another word. His shoulders shudder against my thighs, and his hands clutch the fabric of my jeans.
“She… called me her angel?” he whispers, voice cracking wide open.
I thread my fingers into his hair and press his head against my stomach. His tears soak through my shirt.
“Yes,” I say, barely holding back my own. “She did.”
I can’t even begin to imagine what he must be feeling. He spent his whole childhood dreaming of walking into the arms of a loving family—myfamily. And instead, he walked straight into the arms of a monster.
And yet… he still smiles. Still dances. Stillloves.
Tiny tremors ripple through his body as he sobs quietly against me. I rise to my feet, and he clings to my legs like alittle boy who should have been wrapped in my mother’s arms all those years ago.
I gather him gently in my arms.
He doesn’t resist. He just melts into me, face buried in my neck, breath hitching with each soft, broken sob. I hold him tighter and carry him into the bathroom.
The sound of running water fills the space as I turn on the faucet, warm steam quickly fogging the mirror. I lower the temperature just enough to keep it safe, then move to undress him slowly.
He doesn’t say a word, just lets me move him, undress him, guide him.
When I place him into the tub, his body slips into the water with barely a splash.
He curls inward, arms wrapped around his knees, eyes closed. His face is still wet—not from the bath, but from the tears that haven’t yet stopped falling.
I kneel beside the tub, fingers brushing his damp waves off his forehead, and stay there—quiet, steady—until he’s able to look at me again.
We need to talk.
About Meera.
About how she found me.
About what he wants from me now that she has.
But for now, I focus on him.
“Noah,” I whisper, watching his body slowly relax into the warmth of the water. The steam softens the hard edges of his face. “You’re okay now. She found me. It’s over, beautiful. Your nightmare is over.”
His eyes stay closed. “Not yet,” he says on a breath, the words so quiet they nearly vanish under the sound of water lapping at porcelain.
He reaches for my hand, gently tugging it into the sudsy bath. I let him, let the warmth and water swallow my wrist and watch the tension in his shoulders melt just from touch.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise.
I rest my hand against his knee. His skin is impossibly smooth beneath my fingers. He exhales—slow and shaky—as I slide my palm down the length of his leg, to his ankle… then back up again, retracing that path with deliberate softness.
He sighs, long and deep, and tilts his head back, as if he’s surrendering to this peace he’s never had before.
We sit in silence, the sound of water and the soft crackle of soap bubbles the only noise between us. My fingers continue tracing slow lines along his leg.
Then quietly, almost shyly, he asks, “Can I meet my sister?”
The question catches me off guard, but in the best way. I glance at him, touched by the innocence in his voice as he runs his hand lightly over mine.
