"Amauri?" My voice breaks on his name before I can stop it.
I move before I think; panic climbs up in my throat. What kind of mother—what kind ofidiot—lets herself get fucked in an elevator when her son has just been pulled out of a nightmare? What kind of woman leaves her child alone for even a minute after?—
"Mummy."
The word stops me cold. I spin toward the kitchen just as he strolls out, completely unbothered by the apocalypse I've built in my head. He's barefoot. Calm. Nutella smeared across his chin like war paint. A sandwich clenched in his hand, thick and uneven and very obviously self-made.
"Here," he says again, as if he's been standing there the whole time. "I was hungry."
My knees go weak. I cross the room in three steps and drop in front of him, hands already checking—arms, shoulders, ribs—counting breaths, confirming solidity. He smells like chocolate and soap andhome. Alive. Unhurt. Real.
"Oh my God," I whisper into his hair. "You scared me."
He pats my shoulder, serious as a tiny old man. "You said you'd be right back."
"I know," I choke. "I know."
He pulls back to look at me, eyes sharp, assessing. "You're crying."
I swipe at my face, laughing and sobbing at the same time. "No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are," he contradicts calmly. "And you're wearinghisjacket."
I freeze. Behind me, I feel Massimo's presence like a weather system. He hasn't moved. He hasn't spoken. He's watching us with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Amauri follows my gaze. His eyes flick to Massimo, then back to me. Curious. Not afraid.
"He swore," Amauri adds, apropos of nothing.
Massimo exhales through his nose. "I apologized."
Amauri considers this. Then nods, solemn. "Okay."
Just like that. I stare at my son—this small, impossible person who survived hell and still believes apologies matter—and something inside me tightens so hard it hurts.
"I made a sandwich," he offers, holding it up proudly. "There's a lot of Nutella because I like it."
"I can see that," I say, brushing chocolate from his chin with my thumb. "You're a genius."
"I know." Of course he does.
I pull him into me again, slower this time, breathing him in, letting my heartbeat settle against his. Over his head, my eyes meet Massimo's. There's blood on his knuckles. Dried now. There's something unreadable in his expression, possession, yes, but also restraint. Calculation. Something like… recalibration.
I don't thank him. Not for the jacket. Not for pushing me inside. Not for giving Amauri space instead of interrogations, guards, and questions.
Gratitude is complicated. So is survival.
"I'm tired," Amauri announces into my collarbone. "Can I watch TV?"
"Yes. Pick something quiet."
He nods, already turning away, sandwich in hand. "I like the space one."
"That's fine, just not that one episode with the sehlat." It always makes me cry when the cartoon character remembers his I-Chaya.
"Oh, Mummy, it's just a show," Amauri states with the worldly certainty of a kid who thinks he's seen it all and pads off toward the couch, utterly at ease, leaving chaos in his wake like it's nothing.
When I stand, I don't look away from Massimo.
"This doesn't happen again," I say quietly.
