"But superheroes get hurt too," Amauri insists, then brightens suddenly. "And they still win."
Massimo meets my eyes over Amauri's head, something deep and unspoken passing between us.
"Yeah," he agrees quietly. "They do."
Amauri grins, already distracted as he scrambles toward the ladder. "I'm going again!"
He takes off, fearless, and I finally let myself breathe. I realize—with a mix of awe and aching gratitude—that Massimo didn't just answer the question. He taught my son something important—that scars don't mean broken, they mean survival. When Amauri comes flying down for the second time, we move on to the lazy river. Amauri insists Massimo sit behind him in the inflatable, explaining the rules in grave detail. Massimo listens like this is the most important briefing he's ever received. I hang back a little, watching them drift. Amauri talks. Not just chatter, but real talking. About the helicopter. About how scary it was, but also kind of cool. About how Carter yelled a lot when he was scared, and how he didn't like holding his hand because it got sweaty.
Massimo doesn't interrupt. Doesn't correct. Doesn't defend. He just listens.
"That must've been confusing," he commiserates gently.
Amauri nods. "But you don't yell."
"No," Massimo agrees. "At least not when I'm afraid."
Something in my throat tightens. I drift closer, resting my arms on the edge of the float. Massimo looks at me, and for a second, the world narrows to just the three of us, water lapping softly around our legs. After a while, Amauri goes back to the slide, and while he's gone, Massimo reaches out, fingers brushing mine beneath the surface. A quiet, stolen touch. Nothing overt. Everything loaded.
"You okay?" he murmurs.
I nod. "Yeah. I just… didn't know it could feel like this."
His thumb presses lightly against my knuckle. "Neither did I."
Amauri comes flying back into the pool, demanding we both watch again, and Massimo releases my hand without regret, turning all his attention back to him. That's when I realize, watching them, how natural it is. How unforced. How Amauri leans toward him without hesitation, how Massimo adjusts instinctively, already anticipating needs he's only just been introduced to. This isn't pretending. This isn't a role. This is a bond forming in real time. The sun dips lower. Amauri's laughter echoes across the empty deck. For a few stolen hours, the past loosens its grip.
I know the darkness hasn't gone anywhere. But here, in the water, with my son laughing and Massimo steady beside us, it feels like we're building something strong enough to stand against it.
Amauri isasleep before I make it all the way down the hall. One moment he's talking—murmuring something about slides and superheroes and whether Hammie needs a night-light—and the next his weight goes slack against my chest, breath evening out, fingers still curled in the fabric of my shirt like he might fall if he lets go. I stop walking. Just stand there for a second, holding him. He's heavy in the way only sleeping children are. Trusting. Unaware. Completely certain the world will still be there when he wakes up. I never expected this.
I always assumed there would be children one day. An arranged marriage. Practical alliances. Sons raised to inherit, daughters married off strategically. That was the shape of the future I'd accepted early on. But this?
This quiet, bone-deep pull in my chest when I look at him. The instinct to shield, to soften, tostay.
My son.
The word still feels unreal. And inevitable. Like something my body knew long before my mind caught up. I lay him down gently, tugging the covers up to his chin. He sighs in his sleep and turns onto his side without waking. I stand there longer than necessary, memorizing the way his face relaxes when he feels safe. I have to force myself to leave the room.
Jenna is in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, washing dishes like this is any other night in any other life. The sight of her hits me harder than it should.
Normal.
Domestic.
Mine.
I step up behind her and nuzzle into the curve of her throat, breathe her in.
"Don't," I murmur. "We have people for that."
"I don't mind," she replies, leaning back into me like it's instinct. Like her body remembers mine. "It helps me think."
I reach around her anyway, take the plate from her hands before she can protest, and set it gently in the sink. Turn her. Frame her face with my hands. Up close, I can see the exhaustion in her eyes. The aftermath. The weight she's carrying without complaint.
"You did well today," I praise her quietly.
She blinks. "That feels like a strange thing to say."
